pictures  of  CrabeL 


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HEINRICH  HEINE'S 
PICTURES  OF  TRAVEL. 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND, 


AUTHOR  OF  "MEISTER  KARU'8  SKBTOH-BOOK;,"  AND  "  BDX8HINE  U  THODOHT." 


FOURTH  REVISED  EDITION. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
IF  R,  E  ID  B      I  C  JS.  LEYPOLDT, 
LONDON     TRÜBNER  &  CO. 
1863. 


^ranslatcb  from  %  German, 


BY 


Entered  accf  Hing  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855, 
by  John  "Weik,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District 
Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


Kim  ft  BAIRU.  PRINTERS,  SAJIOOM  STREET,  PHH.UDM.PHU 


 1 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Translator's  Preface   3 

THE  HOMEWARD  Journey,  (1823-24)   9 

THE  HARTZ  Journey,  (1824)   49 

THE  NORTH  SEA,  Part  I.  (1825) 

Twilight  105 

Sunset  106 

Night  on  the  Sea  Shore  107 

Poseidon  109 

Homage  Ill 

Explanation  112 

Night  in  the  Cabin  113 

Storm  115 

Calm  at  Sea  116 

A  Sea  Phantom  117 

Purification  119 

Peace  .  119 

THE  NORTH  SEA,  Part  IL  (1826) 

Sea  Greeting  123 

Storm  124 

The  Shipwrecked  125 

Sunset  126 

The  Song  of  the  Oceanides  128 

The  Gods  of  Greece  130 

Questioning  133 

The  Phoenix  134 

Echo  134 

Sea  Sickness  135 

In  Port  136 

Epilogue  138 

iii 


iv 

PARE. 

THE  NORTH  SEA,  Part  III.  (1826.) 

Written  on  the  Island  Norderney  141 

».The  Poetic  Man  of  Letters  164 

The  Dramatist  104 

Oriental  Poets  165 

Bell-Tones  165 

Orbis  Pictns  165 

IDEAS.    Book  Le  Grand  167 

A  NEW  SPRING  219 

ITALY,  (1828.) 

Journey  from  Munich  to  Genoa  238 

The  Baths  of  Lucca  302 

The  City  of  Lucca  366 

Postscript  409 

ENGLISH  FRAGMENTS,  (1828)  411 

Dialogue  on  the  Thames  412 

London  416 

The  English  420 

Scott's  Life  of  Napoleon  Buonaparte  424 

Old  Bailey  430 

The  New  Ministry  433 

The  Debt  435 

The  Opposition  Party  444 

The  Emancipation  453 

Wellington  458 

The  Liberation  462 

Conclusion  468 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE 


No  living  German  writer  has  exerted  an  influence  com- 
parable to  that  of  Heine,  and  it  is  not  less  true,  that  since 
Goethe,  no  author  has  penetrated  so  generally  through  every 
class  of  society.  Universality  of  popularity  is  the  surest  test 
of  the  existence  of  genius,  just  as  a  faithful  reflex  of  the  spirit 
of  the  age,  in  which  it  was  conceived  is  the  surest  test  of  the 
genuineness  of  a  work  of  art.  That  which  grows  from  and  is 
extolled  by  a  class,  may  owe  its  birth  to  prejudice,  and  its 
subsequent  life  to  the  spirit  of  rivalry  to  which  it  ministers, 
and  we  consequently  find  at  times,  writers  endowed  with  the 
faintest  talent,  achieving  a  world-wide  reputation, — not  by  the 
force  of  innate  genius, — but  by  dexterously  turning  to  account 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  faction.  But  where,  as  in  Heine's  case, 
we  find  friend  and  enemy  alike  interested,  and  the  adherents  of 
all  parties  unanimous  as  to  his  abilities,  regretting  only  the 
direction  which  they  have  taken ;  then  we  become  at  once 
convinced  that  we  have  before  us,  that  rarest  and  most  brilliant 
phenomenon — a  true  genius — and  one  who,  as  such,  impera- 
tively demands  the  attention  of  all  who  lay  claim  to  informa- 
tion and  intelligence. 

Whether  Heine's  genius  and  influence  has  been  invariably 
and  immediately  exerted  for  good  or  for  evil,  is,  and  ever  should 
be,  for  the  impartial  student  of  literature  and  of  history,  a 
matter  of  supreme  indifference.  The  greatest  and  most  import- 
ant developments  are  those  whose  real  aims  and  value  are  first 

3 


4 


translator's  preface. 


appreciated  by  posterity.  If  progress  be  the  peculiar  law  of 
humanity,  it  is  not  less  certain,  that  agitation  is  the  main 
spring  of  progress,  and  that  as  a  general  rule,  all  agitations, 
however  disagreeable  they  may  have  appeared  to  cotempora- 
ries,  have  advanced  the  world.  Those  who  extol  the  advan- 
tages of  civilization,  and  yet  decry  Alexander  and  Caesar,  the 
Crusades,  the  French  Revolution  and  Napoleon,  resemble  the 
lady  who  loved  veal  but  would  fain  have  the  butcher  punished 
for  cruelty.  In  an  extended  common  sense  view,  those  who 
thus  lose  all  thought  of  the  effect  in  the  cause,  are  no  better 
than  thoughtless  thieves,  who  would  fain  defraud  the  Spirit  of 
Progress  of  the  high  yet  legal  price  which  he  sets  upon  his 
wares.  Such  goods  as  happiness,  and  improved  social  culture, 
can  only  be  bought  for  blood  and  suffering.  Such  is  the  law, 
but  we  must,  in  justice  to  the  merchant,  admit,  that  as  his 
business  has  improved  and  his  run  of  custom  increased,  he  has 
shown  a  commendable  alacrity  in  lowering  his  prices. 

Heine  most  emphatically  belongs  to  that  class  of  writers, 
who  are  a  scandal  to  the  weaker  brethren,  a  terror  to  the 
strong,  and  a  puzzle  to  the  conservatively  wise  of  their  own 
day  and  generation,  but  who  are  received  by  the  intelligent 
cotemporary  with  a  smile,  and  by  the  after  comer  with  thanks. 
He  belongs  to  that  great  band,  whose  laughter  has  been  in  its 
inner-soul  more  moving  than  the  most  fervid  flow  of  serious 
eloquence — to  the  band  which  numbered  Lucian  and  Rabelais, 
and  Swift,  among  its  members, — men  who  lashed  into  motion 
the  sleepy  world  of  the  day,  with  all  its  "  baroque-ish"  virtues 
and  vices.  Woe  to  those  who  are  standing  near  when  a 
humorist  of  this  stamp  is  turned^  loose  on  the  world.  He 
knows  nothing  of  your  old  laws, — like  an  Azrael-Napoleon, 
he  advances  conscienceless,  feeling  nothing  but  an  overpowering 
impulse,  as  of  some  higher  power  which  bids  him  strike  and 
spare  not. 

Heine  has  endeared  himself  to  the  German  people  by  his 
universality  of  talent,  his  sincerity,  and  by  his  weaknesses. 


translator's  preface. 


5 


His  very  affectations  render  him  more  natural,  for  there  is  no 
effort  whatever  to  conceal  them,  and  that  which  is  truly  natural, 
will  always  be  attractive,  if  from  no  other  cause  than  because  it 
is  so  readily  intelligible.  He  possesses  in  an  eminent  degree, 
the  graceful  art  of  communicating  to  the  most  uneducated 
mind,  (of  a  sympathetic  cast,)  refined  secrets  of  art  and  criti- 
cism ;  and  this  he  does,  not  like  a  pedantic  professor, 
ex-cathedra,  as  if  every  word  were  an  apocalypse  of  novelty, 
but  rather  like  a  friend,  who  with  a  delicate  regard  for  the 
feelings  of  his  auditor,  speaks  as  though  he  supposed  him 
already  familiar  with  the  subject  in  question.  Pedantry  and 
ignorant  self-sufficiency  appear  equally  and  instinctively  to 
provoke  his  attacks,  and  there  is  scarcely  a  modern  form  of 
these  reactionary  negative  vices  which  he  has  not  severely 
lashed. 

Perhaps  the  most  characteristic  position  which  Heine  holds, 
is,  that  of  interpreter  or  medium  between  the  learned  and  the 
people.  He  has  popularized  philosophy,  and  preached  to  the 
multitude  those  secrets  which  were  once  the  exclusive  property 
of  the  learned.  His  writings  have  been  a  "flux"  between  the 
smothered  fire  of  universities  and  the  heavy  ore  of  the 
public  mmd.  Whether  the  process  will  evolve  pure  and 
precious  metal,  or  noxious  vapors,  —  in  simple  terms, 
whether  the  knowlege  thus  popularized,  and  whether  the  ulti- 
mate tendency  of  this  "  witty,  wise,  and  wicked"  writer  has 
been  for  the  direct  benefit  of  the  people,  is  not  a  question  open 
to  discussion.  All  that  we  know  is,  that  he  is  here — that  he 
cannot  be  thrust  aside — and  that  he  exerts  an  incredible  and 
daily  increasing  influence.  But  to  judge  from  every  analogy 
and  precedent,  we  must  conclude  that  the  agitation  which  he 
has  caused,  though  eminently  disagreeable  to  many,  even 
friends,  who  are  brought  within  its  immediate  action,  will  be 
eminently  beneficial  in  the  end. 

It  were  worse  than  folly  to  attempt  to  palliate  Heine's 
defects.    That  they  exist  engrained,  entwined,  and  integrate 

1* 


i    6  translator's  preface. 

I 

with  his  "better  qualities,  admits  no  doubt  or  denial.  Bat  they 
have  been  in  every  age  so  strikingly  characteristic  of  every 
writer  of  his  class,  that  we  are  forced  to  believe  them  insepara- 
ble. They  are  the  shades  which  render  the  lights  of  the  picture 
apparent,  and  without  which  the  latter  would  in  all  proba- 
bility never  have  excited  attention.  It  is  a  striking  character- 
istic of  true  humor,  that  it  is  "  all-embracing,"  including  the 
good  and  the  bad,  the  lofty  and  the  low.  There  is  no 
characteristic  appreciable  by  the  human  mind,  which  does  not 
come  within  the  range  of  humor,  for  wherever  creation  is 
manifested,  there  will  be  contradiction  and  opposites,  striving 
into  a  law  of  harmony.  Humor  appreciates  the  contradiction 
— the  lie  disguised  as  truth,  or  the  truth  born  of  a  lie — and 
proclaims  it  aloud,  for  it  is  a  strange  quality  of  humor,  that  it 
must  out,  be  the  subject  what  it  may.  Unfortunately,  no  sub- 
ject presents  so  many  and  such  absurdly  vulnerable  points  as 
the  proprieties  and  improprieties  of  daily  life  and  society. 
Poor  well  meaning  civilization,  with  her  allies,  morality  and 
tradition,  maintain  a  ceaseless  warfare  with  nature,  vulgarity, 
and  a  host  of  "outside  barbarian"  foes,  while  Humor,  who 
always  had  in  his  nature  more  of  the  devil  than  the  angel, 
stands  by,  laughing,  as  either  party  gets  a  fall. 

To  understand  the  vagaries  of  Heine's  nature,  we  must 
regard  him  as  influenced  by  humor  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
word.  For  as  humor  exists  in  the  appreciation  and  reproduc- 
tion of  the  contrasts,  of  contrarieties  and  of  appearances,  it 
would  not  be  humor,  did  its  existence  consist  merely  of 
merriment.  The  bitterest  and  saddest  tears  are  as  often 
drawn  forth  by  humor  as  by  mere  pathos — nay,  it  may  be 
doubted  if  grief  and  suffering  be  ever  so  terrible  as  when  sup- 
ported by  some  strange  coincidence  or  paradox.  Conse- 
quently, we  find  in  his  works  some  of  the  most  sorrowful 
plaints  ever  uttered  by  suffering  poet,  but  contrasted  with  the 
most  uproarious  hilarity.  Nay,  he  often  contrives  to  delicately 
weave  the  opposing  sentiments  into  one.    "  Other  bards,"  says 


translator's  preface. 


7 


a  late  review  of  Heine,  in  The  Athenaeum,  "have  passed  from 
grave  to  gay  within  the  compass  of  one  work  ;  but  the  art  of 
constantly  showing  two  natures,  within  the  small  limit  of 
perhaps  three  ballad  verses,  was  reserved  for  Herr  Heine. 
No  one  like  him  understands  how  to  build  up  a  little  edifice 
of  the  tenderest  and  most  refined  sentiment,  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  knocking  it  down  with  a  last  line.  No  one  like 
him  approaches  his  reader  with  doleful  countenance, — pours 
into  the  ear  a  tale  of  secret  sorrow, — and  when  the  sympathies 
are  enlisted,  surprises  his  confidant  with  a  horse-laugh.  It 
seems  as  though  nature  had  endowed  him  with  a  most  delicate 
sensibility  and  a  keen  perception  of  the  ridiculous,  that  his 
own  feelings  may  afford  him  a  perpetual  subject  for  banter." 

A  writer  of  Heine's  character  can  be  judged  only  by  the 
broadest  and  most  comprehensive  rules  of  criticism,  if  indeed, 
in  many  instances  he  be  open  to  criticism  at  all.  A  reviewer 
is  said  to  have  remarked  of  Carlyle,  that  one  might  as  well 
attempt  to  criticise  a  porcupine,  and  this  may  be  said  with 
much  greater  truth  of  Heine.  What  can  be  done  with  a 
writer  who  parades  every  virtue  mingled  with  every  defect, 
including  occasional  flashes  of  studied  stupidity  and  deliberate 
weakness,  and  impresses  on  your  mind  a  conviction  that  all  is 
right,  and  that  all  will  be  perceived  to  form  a  harmonious 
whole,  if  you  yourself  are  only  intelligent  enough  to  master 
the  mysterious  law  of  harmony  which  governs  these  incon- 
gruous elements.  Heine,  in  fact,  can  only  be  fully  compre- 
hended, as  a  whole,  and  the  more  we  read  him,  the  better  we 
appreciate  him.  This  is  a  characteristic  of  all  truly  great  J 
writers  who  do  not  reproduce  themselves. 

There  are  undoubtedly  in  Heine,  many  passages  which  the 
majority  of  readers  might  wish  omitted,  but  which  the  trans- 
lator feels  bound,  by  a  sense  of  literary  fidelity  to  retain.  The 
duty  of  a  translator,  like  that  of  the  historian,  is  not  to  select, 
but  to  preserve  for  those  cotemporaries  -or  after-comers,  who 
may  possibly  make  good  use  of  material  which  he  would  cast  | 


I 

!  8 


translator's  preface. 


away.  It  is  therefore  intended,  that  the  following  translation 
shall  be  strictly  true  to  the  original. 

The  translator  sincerely  trusts  that  the  following  version  of 
the  Pictures  op  Travel — the  first  ever  presented  to  tho 
American  and  English  public,  may  be  found  comparatively 
free  from  defects,  but  above  all,  that  it  may  be  accepted  in  the 
spirit  in  which  it  is  given,  as  an  attempt  to  set  forth  the  most 
influential  living  classic  writer  of  Germany,  and  not  as  an 
endorsement  of  anything  which  that  writer  asserts  or  denies. 

Philadelphia,  May  16,  1866* 


HOMEWARD  JOURNEY. 


Trivial  half-way  joys  we  hate, 
Hate  all  childish  fancies. 
If  no  crime  weigh  down  the  soul, 
Why  should  we  endure  control 

And  groan  in  death-like  trances? 
The  puling  wight  looks  down  and  sighs, 
But  the  brave  man  lifts  his  eyes 

Up  to  Heaven's  bright  glances. 


Through  a  life  too  dark  and  dreary 
Once  gleamed  an  image  bright ; 

That  lovely  form  hath  vanished, 
And  I  am  lost  in  night. 

When  children  stray  in  darkness, 
And  fears  around  them  throng, 

To  drive  away  their  terror, 
They  sing  some  merry  song. 

Thus  like  a  child  I'm  singing 

As  Life's  dark  shades  draw  near ; 

And  though  my  lay  lack  music, 
It  drives  away  my  fear. 


(1823  —  1824.) 


IMMERMANN. 


1. 


—   10  — 


2. 

I  know  not  what  sorrow  is  o'er  me, 

What  spell  is  upon  my  heart ; 
But  a  tale  of  old  times  is  before  me — 

A  legend  that  will  not  depart. 

Night  falls  as  1  linger,  dreaming. 

And  calmly  flows  the  Rhine  ; 
The  peaks  of  the  hills  are  gleaming 

In  the  golden  sunset  shine. 

A  wondrous  lovely  maiden 

Sits  high  in  glory  there  ; 
Her  robe  with  gems  is  laden, 

And  she  combeth  her  golden  hair. 

And  she  spreads  out  the  golden  treasure, 

Still  singing  in  harmony  ; 
And  the  song  hath  a  mystical  measure, 

And  a  wonderful  melody. 

The  boatman,  when  once  she  hath  bound  him 

Is  lost  in  a  wild  sad  love  : 
He  sees  not  the  black  rocks  around  him, 

He  sees  but  the  beauty  above. 

Till  he  drowns  amid  mad  waves  ringing, 

And  sinks  with  the  fading  sun ; 
And  that,  with  her  magical  singing, 

The  witch  of  the  Lnrley  hath  done. 


3. 

My  heart,  my  heart  is  weary, 
Yet  merrily  beams  the  May ; 

And  I  lean  against  the  linden, 
High  up  on  the  terrace  gray. 

The  town-moat  far  below  me 
Runs  silent  and  sad,  and  blue ; 

A  boy  in  a  boat  floats  o'er  it, 
Still  fishing  and  whistling  too. 


—  11  - 


And  a  beautiful  varied  picture, 

Spreads  out  beyond  the  flood, 
Fair  houses,  and  gardens,  and  people, 

And  cattle,  and  meadow,  and  wood. 

Young  maidens  are  bleaching  the  linen, 
They  laugh  as  they  go  and  come ; 

And  the  mill-wheel  is  dripping  with  diamonds, 
I  list  to  its  far  away  hum. 

And  high  on  yon  old  gray  castle 

A  sentry-box  peeps  o'er ; 
While  a  young  red-coated  soldier 

Is  pacing  beside  the  door. 

He  handles  his  shining  musket, 
Which  gleams  in  the  sunlight  red, 

He  halts,  he  presents,  and  shoulders  : — 
I  wish  that  he'd  shoot  me  dead  1 


4. 

I  wander  in  the  woods  and  weep, 
The  thrush  sits  on  the  spray, 

She  springs  and  sings  right  daintily : 
"  Oh  why  so  sad  to-day  ?" 

"  Thy  sister  birds,  the  swallows,  sweet, 

Can  tell  thee  why,  full  well, 
For  they  have  built  their  cunning  nests, 

Where  she  I  love  doth  dwell." 


The  night  is  wet  and  stormy, 

The  Heaven  black  above, 
Through  the  wood  'neath  rustling  branches, 

All  silently  I  rove. 

From  the  lonely  hunter's  cottage, 

A  light  beams  cheerily, 
But  it  will  not  tempt  me  thither 

Where  all  is  sad  to  see. 


—    12  — 


The  blind  old  grandmother's  sitting 
Alone  in  the  leathern  chair  ; 

Uncanny  and  stern  as  an  image, 
And  speaketh  to  no  one  there. 

The  red-headed  son  of  the  hunter 
Walks  cursing  up  and  down ; 

And  casts  in  a  corner  his  rifle, 
"With  a  bitter  laugh  and  a  frown. 

A  maiden  is  spinning  and  weeping, 
And  moistens  the  flax  with  tears ; 

While  at  her  small  feet,  whimpering, 
Lies  a  hound  with  drooping  ears. 


6. 

As  I  once  upon  a  journey 

Met  my  loved  one's  family, 
Little  sister,  father,  mother, 

All  so  kindly  greeted  me. 

Asking  if  my  health  was  better? 

Hoping  that  it  would  not  fail ; 
For  I  seemed, — although  unchanged, 

Just  a  little  thin  and  pale. 

I  inquired  of  aunts  and  cousins, 

All  within  the  social  mark  ; 
And  about  their  little  grayhound 

AVith  his  soft  and  tiny  bark. 

Of  the  loved  one, — long  since  wedded. 

Then  I  asked, — though  somewhat  late 
And  the  father,  smiling,  whispered 

Of  her  "  interesting  state." 

And  I  gave  congratulation 

On  the  delicate  event ; 
And  to  her, — and  all  relations, 

"  Best  remembrances"  were  sent. 


—    13  — 


But  a  little  sister  murmured, 
That  the  dog,  which  once  was  mine, 

Had  gone  mad  in  early  summer, 
"  So  we  drowned  him  in  the  Rhine." 

That  young  girl  is  like  her  sister, 
Scarce  you'd  know  their  tones  apart ; 

And  she  has  the  same  soft  glances 
Which  so  nearly  broke  my  heart. 


7. 

We  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage, 
And  looked  at  the  stormy  tide  ; 

The  evening  mist  came  rising, 
And  floating  far  and  wide. 

One  by  one  in  the  light-house 
The  lamps  shone  out  on  high  ; 

And  far  on  the  dim  horizon 
A  ship  went  sailing  by.'- 

We  spoke  of  storm  and  shipwreck, 
Of  sailors,  and  how  they  live ; 

Of  journies  'twixt  sky  and  water 
And  the  sorrows  and  joys  they  give. 

We  spoke  of  distant  countries, 

In  regions  strange  and  fair ; 
And  of  the  wondrous  beings 

And  curious  customs  there. 

Of  perfume  and  lights  on  the  Gauges, 
Where  trees  like  giants  tower ; 

And  beautiful  silent  beings 
Still  worship  the  lotus  flower. 

Of  the  wretched  dwarfs  of  Lapland, 

Broad-headed,  wide-mouthed  and  small ; 

Who  crouch  round  their  oil-fires,  cooking, 
And  chatter  and  scream  and  bawl. 
2 


—    14  — 


And  the  maidens  earnestly  listened, 
Till  at  last  we  spoke  no  more  ; 

The  ship  like  a  shadow  had  vanished, 
And  darkness  fell  deep  on  the  shore. 


8. 

Thou  gentle  ferry-maiden, 

Come — draw  thy  boat  to  land ; 

And  sit  thee  down  beside  me, 
We'll  talk  with  hand  in  hand. 

Lay  thy  head  against  my  bosom, 
And  have  no  fear  of  me ; 

Dost  thou  not  venture  boldly 
Each  day  on  the  roaring  sea  ? 

My  heart  is  like  the  ocean, 

It  hath  storm,  and  ebb,  and  flow ; 
And  many  a  pearl  is  hidden 

In  its  silent  depths  below. 


9. 

The  moon  is  high  in  heaven, 

And  shimmers  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  my  heart  throbs  like  my  dear  one's, 

As  she  silently  sits  by  me. 

With  my  arm  around  the  darling, 
I  rest  upon  the  strand  ; 
u  And  fearest  thou  the  evening  breezes — 
Why  trembles  thy  snow-white  hand  F 

Those  are  no  evening  breezes, 
But  the  mermaids  singing  low ; 

The  mermaids,  once  my  sisters, 
Who  were  drowned  long,  long  ago." 


—   15  — 


10. 


The  quiet  moon,  amid  the  clouds, 

Like  a  giant  orange  glows, 
While  far  beneath,  the  old  gray  sea, 

All  striped  with  silver,  flows. 

Alone  I  wander  on  the  strand, 

Where  the  wild  surf  roars  and  raves ; 

But  hear  full  many  a  gentle  word, 
Soft  spoken  'mid  the  waves. 

But  oh,  the  night  is  far  too  long, 
And  my  heart  bounds  in  my  breast ; 

Fair  water-fairies  come  to  me, 
And  sing  my  soul  to  rest. 

Oh,  take  my  head  upon  your  lap, 
Take  body  and  soul,  I  pray ; 

But  sing  me  dead — caress  me  dead — 
And  kiss  my  life  away. 


11. 

Wrapped  up  in  gray  cloud-garments, 
The  great  Gods  sleep  together ; 

I  hear  their  thunder-snoring, 

And  to-night  we've  dreadful  weather. 

Dreadful  weather !  what  a  tempest 
Around  the  weak  ship  raves  ! 

Ah,  who  will  check  the  storm-wind, 
Or  curb  the  lordless  waves  ? 

Can't  be  helped  though,  if  all  nature 

A  mad  holiday  is  keeping ; 
So  I'll  wrap  me  up  and  slumber, 

As  the  gods  above  are  sleeping. 


—   16  — 


12. 

The  wild  wind  puts  his  trousers  on — 

His  foam-white  pantaloons ; 
He  lashes  the  waves,  and  every  one 

Roars  out  in  furious  tunes. 

From  yon  wild  height,  with  furious  might. 

The  rain  comes  roaring  free. 
It  seems  as  if  the  old  black  Night 

Would  drown  the  old  dark  Sea. 

The  snow-white  sea-gull,  round  our  mast, 
Sweeps  like  a  winged  wraith ; 

And  every  scream  to  me  doth  seem 
A  prophecy  of  death. 


13. 

The  wind  pipes  up  for  dancing, 
The  waves  in  white  are  clad ; 

Hurrah ! — how  the  ship  is  leaping ! 
And  the  night  is  merry  and  mad. 

And  living  hills  of  water 

Sweep  up  as  the  storm-wind  calls  ; 
Here  a  black  gulph  is  gaping, 

And  there  a  white  tower  falls. 

And  sounds  as  of  sickness  and  swearing 
From  the  depths  of  the  cabin  come ; 

I  keep  a  firm  hold  on  the  bulwarks, 
And  wish  that  I  now  were  at  home. 


14. 

The  night  comes  stealing  o'er  me, 
And  clouds  are  on  the  sea ; 

While  the  wavelets  rustle  before  me 
With  a  mystical  melody. 

A  water-maid  rose  singing 

Before  me,  fair  and  pale ; 
And  snow-white  breasts  were  springing 

Like  fountains,  'neath  her  veil. 


—   17  — 


She  kissed  me  and  she  pressed  me, 
Till  I  wished  her  arms  away : 
"  Why  hast  thou  so  caressed  me, 
Thou  lovely  Water  Fay  ?" 

"  Oh  thou  need'st  not  alarm  thee, 

That  thus  thy  form  I  hold ; 
For  I  only  seek  to  warm  me, 
And  the  night  is  black  and  cold." 

"  The  wind  to  the  waves  is  calling, 
The  moonlight  is  fading  away ; 
And  tears  down  thy  cheek  are  falling, 
Thou  beautiful  Water  Fay!" 

"  The  wind  to  the  waves  is  calling, 

And  the  moonlight  grows  dim  on  the  rocks 
But  no  tears  from  mine  eyes  are  falling, 
'Tis  the  water  which  drips  from  my  locks." 

u  The  ocean  is  heaving  and  sobbing, 
The  sea-mews  scream  in  the  spray; 
And  thy  heart  is  wildly  throbbing, 
Thou  beautiful  Water  Fay!" 

u  My  heart  is  wildly  swelling, 
And  it  beats  in  burning  truth ; 
For  I  love  thee,  past  all  telling — 
Thou  beautiful  mortal  youth." 


15. 

"  When  early  in  the  morning 
I  pass  thy  window,  sweet ; 
Oh  what  a  thrill  of  joy  is  mine, 
When  both  our  glances  meet !" 

"With  those  dark  flashing  eye-balls 
Which  all  things  round  thee  scan ; 
Who  art  thou,  and  what  s^ek'st  thou  ? 
Thou  strange  and  sickly  man  f 
2* 


—    18  — 


"I  am  a  German  poet, 

Well  known  in  the  German  land ; 
Where  the  first  names  are  written, 
Mine  own  with  right  may  stand. 

u  And  what  I  seek,  thou  fairest, 
Is  that  for  which  many  pine. 
And  where  men  speak  of  sorrows, 
Thou'lt  hear  them  speak  of  mine." 


16. 

The  ocean  shimmered  far  around, 

As  the  last  sun-rays  shone; 
We  sat  beside  the  fisher's  hut, 

Silent  and  all  alone. 

The  mist  swam  up, — the  water  heaved  : 
The  sea-mew  round  us  screamed ; 

And  from  thy  dark  eyes  full  of  love, 
The  scalding  tear-drops  streamed. 

I  saw  them  fall  upon  thy  hand, 

Upon  my  knee  I  sank ; 
And  from  that  white  and  yielding  hand, 

The  glittering  tears  I  drank. 

And  since  that  hour  I  waste  away, 
'Mid  passion's  hopes  and  fears ; 

Oh,  weeping  girl ! — oh,  weary  heart ! — 
Thou'rt  poisoned  with  her  tears  ! 


17. 

High  up  on  yonder  mountain, 
There  stands  a  lordly  hall, 

Where  dwell  three  gentle  maidens, 
And  I  was  loved  by  all. 

On  Saturday  Hetty  loved  me, 
The  Sabbath  was  Julia's  day, 

And  on  Monday,  Kunigunda, 
Half  kissed  my  breath  away. 


—    19  — 


On  Tuesday,  in  their  castle, 

My  ladies  gave  a  ball ; 
And  thither,  with  coaches  and  horses, 

Went  my  neighbours,  their  wives  and  all. 

But  I  had  no  invitation, 

Although  I  dwelt  so  near ; 
And  the  gossiping  misses  and  matrons, 

All  thought  it  uncommonly  queer ! 


18. 

Far  on  the  dim  horizon, 
As  in  a  land  of  dreams ; 

Rises  a  white  tower'd  city, 
Fading  'mid  sun-set  gleams. 

The  evening  breeze  is  wreathing 
The  water  where  I  float ; 

And  in  solemn  measure,  the  sailor 
Keeps  time  as  he  rows  my  boat. 

Once  more  the  sun-light  flashes, 
In  wondrous  glory  round, 

And  lights  up  the  foaming  water, 
Where  she  I  loved  was  drowned. 


19. 

Once  more  in  solemn  ditty 

I  greet  thee,  as  I  melt 
In  tears,  thou  wondrous  city, 

Where  once  my  true  love  dwelt. 

Say  on,  ye  gates  and  tower, 

Doth  she  I  loved  remain  ? 
I  gave  her  to  your  power — 

Give  me  my  love  again  1 

Blame  not  the  trusty  tower  1 

No  word  his  walls  could  say, 
As  a  pair,  with  their  trunks  and  baggage. 

So  silently  travelled  away. 


—    20  — 


But  the  wicket-gate  was  faithless, 
Through  which  she  escaped  so  still : 

Oh,  a  wicket  is  always  ready 
To  ope  when  a  wicked  one  will.* 


20. 

Again  I  see  the  well-known  street, 

The  same  old  path  I  tread; 
1  've  left  the  house  where  once  she  dwelt — 

Now  all  seems  sad  and  dead. 

The  streets  press  round  like  night-mare  scenes, 

The  road  is  rough  to  day. 
The  houses  hang  above  my  head, — 

Oh,  let  me  haste  away  ! 


21. 

I  wandered  through  the  silent  hall, 
"Where  once  she  loved  and  wept ; 

And  where  I  saw  the  false  tears  fall, 
A  winding  serpent  crept. 


22. 

Calm  is  the  night,  and  the  city  is  sleeping, — 
Once  in  this  house  dwelt  a  lady  fair ; 
Long,  long  ago,  she  left  it,  weeping, 
But  still  the  old  house  is  standing  there. 

Yonder  a  man  at  the  heavens  is  staring, 
"Wringing  his  hands  as  in  sorrowful  case : 
He  turns  to  the  moonlight,  his  countenance  baring — 
Oh,  heaven  !  he  shows  me  my  own  sad  face  ! 

Shadowy  form,  with  my  own  agreeing ; 
Why  mockest  thou  thus,  in  the  moonlight  cold, 
The  sorrows  which  here  once  vexed  my  being, 
Many  a  night  in  the  days  of  old  ? 


*  Die  Thore  jedoch,  die  Hessen 

Mein  Liebchen  entwischen  gar  still; 
Ein  Thor  ist  immer  willig, 
Wenn  eine  Thorinn  tviU. 


—   21  — 


23. 

How  can'st  thou  sleep  so  calmly, 

While  I  alive  remain  ? 
Old  griefs  may  yet  be  wakened, 

A  nd  then  I'll  break  my  chain. 

Know'st  thou  the  wild  old  ballad, 
How  a  dead,  forgotten  slave 

Came  to  his  silent  lady, 
And  bore  her  to  the  grave  ? 

Believe  me,  gentle  maiden, 

Thou  all-too-lovely  star, 
I  live,  and  still  am  stronger 

Than  all  the  dead  men  are. 

24. 

The  maiden  sleeps  in  her  chamber, 
The  moonlight  steals  quivering  in  ; 

Without,  there's  a  ringing  and  singing, 
As  of  waltzing  about  to  begin. 

"  I  will  see  who  it  is  'neath  my  window, 
That  gives  me  this  strange  serenade  V* 
She  saw  a  pale  skeleton  figure, 

Who  fiddled,  and  sang  as  he  played : 

"  A  waltz  thou  once  didst  promise, 
And  hast  broken  thy  word,  my  fair. 
To  night  there's  a  ball  in  the  church-yard, 
So  come— I  will  dance  with  thee  there !" 

A  spell  came  over  the  maiden, 
She  could  neither  speak  nor  stay ; 

So  she  followed  the  Form, — which  singing, 
And  fiddling,  went  dancing  away. 

Fiddling,  and  dancing,  and  hopping, 
And  rattling  his  arms  and  spine  ; 

The  white  skull  grinning  and  nodding 
Away  in  the  dim  moon-shine. 


—   22  — 


25. 

I  stood  in  shadowy  dreams, 

I  gazed  upon  her  form ; 
And  in  that  face,  so  dearly  loved, 

Strange  life  began  to  warm. 

And  on  her  soft  and  child-like  mouth 
There  played  a  heavenly  smile  : 

Though  in  her  dark  and  lustrous  eyes, 
A  tear-drop  shone  the  while. 

And  my  own  tears  were  flowing  too, 

In  silent  agony ; 
For  oh  !  I  cannot  deem  it  true, 

That  thou  art  lost  to  me. 


26. 

I,  a  most  wretched  Atlas,  who  a  world 
Of  bitterest  griefs  and  agonies  maintain, 
Must  bear  the  all-unbearable,  until 
The  heart's  foundation  fails. 

Wild  daring  heart ! — it  was  thine  own  mad  choice , 
Thou  would'st  be  happy, — infinitely  blessed 
Or  wretched  beyond  measure.    Dariüg  hearty 
Now  thou  art  lost  indeed ! 


27. 

Ages  may  come  and  vanish, 

Races  may  pass  away ; 
But  the  love  which  I  have  cherished 

Within,  can  ne'er  decay. 

Once  more  I  fain  would  see  thee 
And  kneel  where  e'er  thou  art ; 

And  dying,  whisper — "  Madam, 
Be  pleased  to  accept  my  heart!" 


—   23  — 


28- 

I  dreamed : — the  moon  shone  grimly  down, 
The  stars  seemed  sad  and  gray ; 

And  I  was  in  my  true  love's  town, 
Full  many  a  league  away. 


I  stood  before  the  house  and  wept, 
,  I  kissed  the  shadowy  stone 
Where  oft  her  little  foot  had  stepped, 
"Where  oft  her  robes  had  flown. 


The  cold  step  chilled  my  lip  and  arm, 

I  lay  in  shivering  swoon ; 
While  from  above  a  phantom  form 

Looked  out  upon  the  moon. 


29. 

What  means  this  solitary  tear 
Which  dims  mine  eye  to-day  ? 

It  is  the  last  of  all  the  hoard, 
Where  once  so  many  lay. 


It  had  full  many  a  sister  then 
Which  rolled  in  glittering  light ; 

But  now,  with  all  my  smiles  and  griefs, 
They're  lost  in  wind  and  night. 

And,  like  the  mists,  have  also  fled 

The  light  blue  sparkling  stars 
Which  flashed  their  rays  of  joy  or  woe, 

Down  through  life's  prison-bars. 

Oh  love — wild  love, — where  art  thou  now? 

Fled  like  an  idle  breath : 
Thou  silent  solitary  tear 

Go  fade  in  misty  death ! 


30. 


The  pale  half-moon  is  floating 

Like  a  boat  'mid  cloudy  waves, 
Lone  lies  the  pastor's  cottage 

Amid  the  silent  graves. 

The  mother  reads  in  the  Bible, 
The  son  seems  weary  and  weak ; 

The  eldest  daughter  is  drowsy, 

While  the  youngest  begins  to  speak. 

"  Ah  me  ! — how  every  minute 

Rolls  by  so  drearily ; 
Only  when  some  one  is  buried, 

Have  we  any  thing  here  to  see !" 

The  mother  murmured  while  reading, 

"Thou'rt  wrong— they've  brought  but  four 

Since  thy  poor  father  was  buried 
Out  there  by  the  church-yard  door." 

The  eldest  daughter  says,  gaping, 
"  No  more  will  I  hunger  by  you ; 

I'll  go  to  the  Baron,  to-morrow, 
He's  wealthy,  and  fond  of  me  too." 

The  son  bursts  out  into  laughter, 
"Three  hunters  carouse  in  the  Sun; 

They  all  can  make  gold,  and  gladly 
Will  show  me  how  it  is  done." 

The  mother  holds  the  Bible 

To  his  pale  face  in  grief ; 
"  And  wilt  thou — wicked  fellow — 

Become  a  highway  thief  ?" 

A  rapping  is  heard  on  the  window, 
There  trembles  a  warning  hand  ; 

Without,  in  his  black,  church  garments, 
They  see  their  dead  father  stand. 


—   25  — 


31. 

To-night  wc  have  dreadful  weather, 
It  rains  and  snows  and  storms ; 

I  sit  at  my  window,  gazing 
Out  on  benighted  forms. 

There  glimmers  a  lonely  candle, 
Which  wearily  wanders  on  ; 

An  old  dame  with  a  lantern, 
Comes  hobbling  slowly  anon. 

—It  seems  that  for  eggs  and  butter, 
And  sugar,  she  forth  has  come, 

To  make  a  cake  for  her  daughter 
Her  grown  up  darling  at  home. 

Who,  at  the  bright  lamp  blinking, 
In  an  arm-chair  lazily  lies  ; 

And  golden  locks  are  waving 
Above  her  beautiful  eyes. 


32. 

They  say  that  my  heart  is  breaking 
With  love  and  sorrow  too  ; 

And  at  last  I  shall  believe  it 
As  other  people  do. 

Thou,  girl,  with  eyes  dark  beaming, 
I  have  ever  told  thee  this, 

That  my  heart  with  love  is  breaking, 
That  thou  wert  all  my  bliss. 

But  only  in  my  chamber 
Dared  I  thus  boldly  speak  ; 

Alas  ? — when  thou  wert  present, 
My  words  were  sad  and  weak. 

For  there  were  evil  angels 

Who  quickly  hushed  my  tongue ; 
And  oh  ! — such  evil  angels 

Kill  many  a  heart  when  young. 


3 


—   26  — 


33. 

Thy  soft  and  snow-white  fingers  ! 
Could  I  kiss  them  once  again, 
And  press  them  on  my  beating  heart, 
And  melt  in  silent  tears ! 

Thy  melting,  violet  eyes 
Beam  round  me  night  and  day ; 
And  I  vex  my  soul  with  wondering 
What  the  soft,  blue  riddles  mean  I 


34. 

m  And  hath  she  never  noticed 
That  thou  with  love  did'st  burn ; 

And  saw'st  thou  in  her  glances 
No  sign  of  love's  return  ? 

And  could'st  thou  then  read  nothing 
In  all  her  words  and  airs : 

Thou,  who  hast  such  experience, 
Dear  friend,  in  these  affairs  ? 


35. 

They  tenderly  loved,  and  yet  neither 
Would  venture  the  other  to  move ; 

They  met  as  if  hate  were  between  them, 
And  yet  were  half  dying  with  love. 

They  parted,  and  then  saw  each  other 
At  times,  in  their  visions  alone ; 

They  had  long  left  this  sad  life  together, 
Yet  scarcely  to  either  'twas  known. 


36. 

When  first  my  afflictions  you  heard  me  rehearse, 

You  gaped  and  you  stared  : — God  be  praised  'twas  no  worse  I 

But  when  I  repeated  them  smoothly  in  rhyme, 

You  thought  it  was  "wonderful,"  "glorious,"  " sublime  1" 


—   27  — 


37. 

I  called  the  Devil  and  lie  came, 

In  blank  amaze  his  form  I  scanned, 
He  is  not  ugly,  is  not  lame, 

But  a  refined,  accomplished  man. 
One  in  the  very  prime  of  life, 
At  home  in  every  cabinet  strife, 
Who,  as  diplomatist,  can  tell 
Church  and  State  news,  extremely  well. 
He  is  somewhat  pale,  and  no  wonder  either, 
Since  he  studies  Sanscrit  and  Hegel  together. 
His  favorite  poet  is  still  Fouque, 

Of  criticism  he  makes  no  mention ; 

Since  all  such  matters^unworthy  attention^ 
He  leaves  to  his  grandmother,  Hecate. 
He  praised  my  legal  efforts,  and  said 
That  he  also  when  younger  some  law  had  read, 
Remarking  that  friendship  like  mine  would  be 
An  acquisition,  and  bowed  to  me  : — 
Then  asked  if  we  had  not  met  before 

At  the  Spanish  minister's  soiree? 
And  as  I  scanned  his  face  once  more, 

I  found  I  had  known  him  for  many  a  day ! 


38. 

Mortal ! — sneer  not  at  the  Devil, 
Soon  thy  little  life  is  o'er ; 

And  eternal  grim  damnation 
Is  no  idle  tale  of  yore. 

Mortal ! — pay  the  debts  thou  owcst, 
Long  'twill  be  ere  life  is  o'er ; 

Many  a  time  thou  yet  must  borrow, 
As  thou  oft  hast  done  before. 


39. 

The  three  wise  monarchs  of  the  East, 

Asked  in  each  city  near : 
"  Which  is  the  way  to  Bethlehem, 

Tell  us  ye  children  dear  ?" 


—   28  — 


But  neither  old  nor  young  could  tell, 
The  three  wise  kings  went  on; 

Still  following  a  golden  star 
Which  gleamed  in  glory  dowTn. 

Until  it  paused  o'er  Joseph's  house, 

Before  the  shrine  they  bowed ; 
The  oxen  lowed,  the  infant  cried, 
■The  three  kings  sang  aloud. 


40. 

My  child,  we  once  were  children, 
Two  children  gay  and  small ; 

We  crept  into  the  hen-house 

And  hid  ourselves,  heads  and  all. 

We  clucked  just  like  the  poultry, 

And  when  folks  came  by,  you  know — 
Kickery-kee  ! — they  started, 

And  thought  'twas  a  real  crow. 
The  chests  which  lay  in  our  court-yard, 

We  papered  so  smooth  and  nice ; 
We  thought  they  were  splendid  houses, 

And  lived  in  them,  snug  as  mice. 

When  the  old  cat  of  our  neighbour 
Dropped  in  for  a  social  call ; 

We  made  her  bows  and  courtesies, 
And  compliments  and  all. 

We  asked  of  her  health,  and  kindly 
Inquired  how  all  had  sped  : — 

Since  then,  to  many  a  tabby, 
The  self-same  things  we've  said. 

And  oft,  like  good  old  people, 
We  talked  with  sober  tongue ; 

Declaring  that  all  was  better 

In  the  days  when  we  were  young. 

How  piety,  faith  and  true-love 

Had  vanished  quite  away ; 
And  how  dear  we  found  the  coffee, 

How  scarce  the  money  to-day. 


—    29  - 


So  all  goes  rolling  onward. 
The  merry  days  of  youth, — 

M  oney,  the  world  and  its  seasons ; 
And  honesty,  love  and  truth. 


41. 

My  heart  is  sad,  and  with  misgiving 

I  ponder  o'er  the  ancient  day, 
When  this  poor  world  was  fit  to  live  in, 

And  calmly  sped  the  time  away. 

Now  all  seems  changed  which  once  was  cherished, 
The  wrorld  is  filled  with  care  and  dread ; 

As  if  the  Lord  in  Heaven  had  perished, 
And  down  below  the  Devil  were  dead. 

But  care  of  all  hath  so  bereft  us, 

So  little  pleasure  Life  doth  give; 
That  were  not  some  faint  Love  still  left  us 

No  more  I'd  wish  on  Earth  to  live. 


42. 

As  the  summer  moon  shines  rising 
Through  the  dark  and  cloud-like  trees 

So  my  soul  mid  shadowy  memories 
Still  a  gleaming  picture  sees. 

All  upon  the  deck  were  seated, 
Proudly  sailing  on  the  Rhine  ; 

And  the  shores  in  summer  verdure 
Gleamed  in  sunset's  crimson  shine. 

And  I  rested,  gently  musing, 

At  a  lovely  lady's  feet ; 
And  her  dear  pale  face  was  gleaming 

In  the  sun-rays  soft  and  fleet. 

Lutes  were  ringing,  boys  were  singing, 
Wondrous  rapture  o'er  me  stole ; 

Bluer,  bluer  grew  the  Heavens, 
Fuller,  higher,  swelled  mv  soul. 
3* 


Like  a  legend,  wood  and  river, 
Hill  and  tower  before  me  flies  ; 

And  I  see  the  whole,  reflected, 
In  the  lady's  lovely  eyes. 


43. 

In  dreams  I  saw  the  loved  one, 
A  sorrowing,  wearied  form  ; 

Her  beauty  blanched  and  withered 
By  many  a  dreary  storm. 

A  little  babe  she  carried, 

Another  child  she  led, 
And  poverty  and  trouble 

In  glance  and  garb  I  read. 

She  trembled  through  the  market, 
And  face  to  face  we  met ; 

And  I  calmly  said,  while  sadly 
Her  eyes  on  mine  were  set. 

"  Come  to  my  house,  I  pray  thee, 
For  thou  art  pale  and  thin  ; 
A.nd  for  thee,  by  my  labour, 
Thy  meat  and  drink  I'll  win. 

"  And  to  thy  little  children 
I'll  be  a  father  mild  : 
But  most  of  all  thy  parent, 
Thou  poor  unhappy  child." 

Nor  will  I  ever  tell  thee 
That  once  I  held  thee  dear ; 

And  if  thou  diest,  then  I 
Will  weep  upon  thy  bier. 


44. 

Dear  friend — why  wilt  thou  ever 

Through  the  same  old  measures  move ; 

Wilt  thou  brooding,  sit  forever 
On  the  same  old  eggs  of  love  ? 


—    SI  — 


'Tis  an  endless  incubation, 

From  their  shells  the  chickens  look ; 
And  the  chirping  generation 

Straight  is  cooped  within  a  book. 


But  do  not  be  impatient, 

If  the  same  old  chords  still  ring  ; 
And  ye  find  the  same  old  sorrows, 

In  the  newest  songs  I  sing. 
Wait — ye  shall  yet  hear  fading, 

This  echo  of  my  pain ; 
When  a  fresh  spring  of  poems 

Blooms  from  my  heart  again. 


And  now  it  is  time  that  with  reason, 

Myself  from  all  folly  I  free ; 
I  have  played  for  too  lengthened  a  season, 

The  part  of  an  actor  with  thee. 

Our  scenery  all  was  new-fangled, 
In  the  style  of  the  highest  romance  ; 

My  armour  was  splendidly  spangled, 
I  thought  but  of  lady  and  lance. 

And  now  with  this  frippery  before  me, 
I  sigh  that  such  parts  I  could  fill ; 

And  a  sorrowful  feeling  comes  o'er  me, 
As  though  I  played  comedy  still. 

Ah,  Heaven !  unconscious  and  jesting, 

I  spoke  what  in  secret  I  felt ; 
And  while  Death  in  my  own  heart  was  resting 

As  the  dying  athleta  I  knelt. 


47. 

The  great  King  Wiswa-mitra 

Is  lost  in  trouble  now ; 
For  he  through  strife  and  penance 

Will  win  Waschischta's  cow. 


—    32  — 


Oh  great  King,  Wiswa-mitra! 

Oh  what  an  ass  art  thou  ! 
To  bear  such  strife  and  penance 

All  for  a  single  cow. 


48. 

Heart  my  heart, — Oh  be  not  shaken, 
And  still  calmly  bear  thy  pain  ! 
For  the  Spring  will  bring  again, 

What  a  dreary  winter's  taken. 

And  how  much  is  still  remaining, 

And  how  bright  the  world  still  beanii ; 
And  my  heart, — what  pleasant  seems, 

Thou  may'st  love  with  none  complaining. 


49. 

Thou'rt  like  a  lovely  floweret, 

So  void  of  guile  or  art. 
I  gaze  upon  thy  beauty, 

And  grief  steals  o'er  my  heart 

I  fain  would  lay,  devoutly, 
My  hands  upon  thy  brow ; 

And  pray  that  God  will  keep  thee 
As  good  and  fair  as  now. 


50. 

Child ! — it  were  thine  utter  ruin, 
And  I  strive,  right  earnestly, 

That  thy  gentle  heart  may  never 
Glow  with  aught  like  love  for  me. 

But  the  thought  that  'twere  so  easy, 
Still  amid  my  dreams  will  move; 

And  I  still  am  ever  thinking 
That  'twere  sweet  to  win  thy  love. 


—   83  — 


51. 

When  on  my  bed  I'm  lying, 
In  night  and  pillows  warm, 

There  ever  floats  before  me 
A  sweet  and  gentle  form, 

But  soon  as  silent  slumber 
Has  closed  my  weary  eyes, 

Before  me,  in  a  vision, 
I  see  the  image  rise. 

Yet  with  the  dream  of  morning 
It  doth  not  pass  away, 

For  I  bear  it  in  my  bosom 
Around,  the  live-long  day. 


52. 

Maiden  with  a  mouth  of  roses, 
With  those  eyes  serene  and  bright ! 

Thou,  my  little  darling  maiden ! 
Dearest  to  my  heart  and  sight ! 

Long  the  winter  nights  are  growing — 
Would  I  might  forget  their  gloom: 

By  thee  sitting — with  thee  chatting, 
In  thy  little  friendly  room. 

Often  to  my  lips,  in  rapture, 
I  would  press  thy  snowy  hand; 

Often  with  my  eyes  bedewing 
Silently  that  darling  hand. 


53. 

Though  without,  the  snow-drifts  tower, 
Though  hail  falls,  and  tempests  shower 
Rattling  on  the  window-pane : 
Still  their  gloom  is  all  in  vain — 
For  her  form  doth  ever  bring 
To  my  heart  the  joys  of  spring 


54. 


Some  to  the  Madonna  run, 
Others  pray  to  Paul  or  Peter ; 
I  will  only  pray  to  thee,  love, 

But  to  thee,  thou  fairest  sun ! 

Grant  me  kisses ! — I  am  won ! — 
Oh,  be  merciful  and  gracious ! 
Fairest  sun  among  the  maidens ! 

Fairest  maiden  'neath  the  sun  I 


55. 

And  do  not  my  pale  cheeks  betray 
To  thee  my  heart's  distress  ? 

And  wilt  thou  that  so  proud  a  mouth 
The  beggar's  prayer  confess? 

Ah  me!  this  mouth  is  far  too  proud; 

It  can  but  kiss  and  jest. 
I  may  have  spoken  mocking  words 

With  anguish  in  my  breast. 


56. 

Dearest  friend — thou  art  in  love ; 

Now  thou  feel'st  the  arrows  smart ; 
Darkness  gathers  round  thy  head, 

Light  is  dawning  in  thy  heart. 

Dearest  friend — thou  art  in  love ! 

And  that  love  must  be  confest ; 
For  I  see  thy  glowing  heart 

Plainly  scorching  through  thy  veeti  / 


57. 

I  fain  would  linger  near  thee, 
But  when  I  sought  to  woo, 

Thou  hadst  no  time  to  hear  me, 
Thou  hadst   too  much  to  do." 


—    85  — 


I  told  tliee,  shortly  after, 
That  all  thine  own  I 'd  be ; 

And  with  a  peal  of  laughter, 
Thou  mad'st  a  courtesy. 

At  last  thou  didst  confuse  me 
More  utterly  than  this  ; 

For  thou  didst  e'en  refuse  me 
A  trifling  parting  kiss ! 

Fear  not  that  I  shall  languish, 
Or  shoot  myself — oh,  no ! 

I've  gone  through  all  this  anguish, 
My  dear,  long,  long  ago. 


58. 

Bright  sapphires  are  thy  beaming  eyes, 
Dear  eyes,  so  soft  and  sweet ; 

Ah  me !  thrice  happy  is  the  man 
"Whom  they  with  true  love  greet. 

Thy  heart's  a  diamond,  bright  and  clear. 
Whence  rays  of  splendor  flow ; 

Ah  me !  thrice  happy  is  the  man 
For  whom  with  love  they  glow. 

Thy  lips  are  rubies  melting  red, 

No  brighter  need  we  seek, 
Ah  me  !  thrice  happy  is  the  man, 

To  whom  with  love  they  speak. 

Oh,  could  I  meet  that  happy  man, 

But  once,  I'd  ask  no  more ; 
For  all  alone  in  the  gay  green  wood, 

His  joys  would  soon  be  o'er. 


59. 

With  love-vows  I  long  have  bound  me, 
Firmly  bound  me  to  thy  heart ; 

Now  with  my  own  meshes  round  me, 
J esting  turns  to  pain  and  smart. 


—    36  — 


But  if  thou, — with  right  before  thee, — 
Now  should'st  turn  away  thy  head  ; 

Then  the  devil  would  soon  come  o'er  me, 
And  by  Jove,  I'd  shoot  me  dead ! 


60. 

This  world  and  this  life  are  too  scattered  we  know, 

And  so  to  a  German  professor  I'll  go. 

He  can  well  put  all  the  fragments  together, 

Into  a  system,  convenient  and  terse  ; 
While  with  his  night-cap,  and  dressing-robe  tatters, 

He'll  stop  up  the  chinks  of  the  wide  Universe. 


6ft. 

To-night  they  give  a  party, 

The  house  gleams  bright  above  ; 

And  across  the  lighted  window 
I  see  thy  shadow  move. 

Thou  see'st  me  not  in  darkness, 

I  stand  alone,  apart ; 
Still  less  can'st  cast  thy  glances 

Into  my  gloomy  heart. 

This  gloomy  heart  still  loves  thee, 
It  loves  : — though  long  forgot. 

Breaking,  convulsed  and  bleeding ; 
Alas  ! — thou  see'st  it  not ! 


•  62. 

1  would  I  could  blend  my  sorrows 

Into  a  single  word  ; 
It  should  fly  on  the  wilful  breezes, 

As  wildly  as  a  bird. 

"  They  should  carry  to  thee,  my  loved  one, 
That  saddest,  strangest  word ; 
At  every  hour  it  would  meet  thee 
In  every  place  be  heard. 


—   37  — 


And  as  soon  as  those  eyes  in  slumber, 
Had  dimmed  their  starry  gleam  ; 

That  word  of  my  sorrow  should  follow, 
Down  to  thy  deepest  dream. 


Thou  hast  diamonds  and  dresses  and  jewels, 

And  all  that  a  mortal  could  crave  ; 
Thou  hast  eyes  that  are  fairer  than  any, 

My  dearest ! — what  more  would'st  thou  have  ? 

To  those  eyes  which  are  brighter  than  jewels, 
I  have  written — both  lively  and  grave : — 

An  army  of  poems  immortal, 

My  dearest ! — what  more  would'st  thou  have  ? 

Ah ! — those  eyes  which  are  brighter  than  diamonds, 
Have  brought  me  well  nigh  to  the  grave ; 

I  am  tortured,  tormented,  and  ruined, 

My  dearest ! — what  more  would'st  thou  have  ? 


64. 

He  who  for  the  first  time  loves, 
Though  unloved  is  still  a  God ; 
But  the  man  who  loves  again, 
And  in  vain,  must  be  a  fool. 

Such  a  fool  am  I,  who  love 
Once  again,  without  return  ; 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  all  smile, 
And  I  smile  with  them — and  die  ! 


65. 

No,  the  tameness  and  the  sameness 
Of  thy  soul,  would  not  agree 

With  my  own  soul's  ruder  braveness, 
"Which  o'er  rocks  went  leaping  free. 

Thy  love-paths  were  graded  turnpikes, 
Now  with  husband,  every  day, 

Arm  in  arm  I  see  thee  walking 
Bravely, — in  the  family  way  ! 


—   38  — 


66. 

They  gave  me  advice  and  counsel  in  store, 
Praised  me  and  honoured  me,  more  and  more ; 
Said  that  I  only  should  "wait  awhile." 
Offered  their  patronage  too,  with  a  smile. 

But  with  all  their  honour  and  approbation, 
I  should,  long  ago,  have  died  of  starvation , 
Had  there  not  come  an  excellent  man, 
Who  bravely  to  help  me  along  began. 

Good  fellow ! — he  got  me  the  food  I  ate, 
His  kindness  and  care  I  shall  never  forget ; 
Yet  I  cannot  embrace  him — though  other  folks  can, 
For  I  myself  am  this  excellent  man  I 


67. 

I  can  never  speak  too  highly 
Of  my  amiable  young  friend  ; 

Oft  he  treated  me  to  oysters, 
Wine,  and  cordials  without  end. 

Neatly  fit  his  coat  and  trousers, 
His  cravats  are  such  as  "tell;" 

And  he  sees  me  every  morning 
To  inquire  if  I  am  well. 

Of  my  great  renown  he  speaketh, 
Of  my  wit  or  of  my  grace  ; 

And  to  aid  me  or  to  serve  me, 
Warmly  seeks  for  time  and  place. 

Every  evening,  to  the  ladies, 
In  the  tones  of  one  inspired, 

He  declaims  my  "  heavenly  poems 
Which  the  world  has  so  admired." 

Oh,  but  is  it  not  refreshing 

Still  to  find  such  youths  "  about," 
And  in  times  like  these,  when  truly, 

All  the  best  seem  dying  out  ? 


—   39  — 


68. 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  Lord  of  all, 
High  up  in  Heaven  sitting ; 

With  cherubim  who  praised  my  song. 
Around  in  glory  flitting. 

And  cakes  I  ate,  and  sugar-plums, 
Worth  many  a  shining  dollar, 

And  claret-punch  I  also  drank, 
With  never  a  bill  to  follow. 

And  yet  ennui  vexed  me  sore, 
I  longed  for  earthly  revels, 

And  were  I  not  the  Lord  himself, 
1  sure  had  been  the  Devil's. 

"  Come,  trot,  tall  Angel  Gabriel, 
To  thee  broad  wings  are  given  ; 
Go  find  my  dearest  friend  Eugene, 
And  bring  him  up  to  Heaven  1 

"  Ask  not  for  him  in  lecture-rooms 
But  where  Tokay  inspires  ; 
Seek  him  not  in  the  Hedwig's  Church, 
Seek  him  at  Ma'msell  Meyer's  !" 

Abroad  he  spreads  his  mighty  wings, 
To  earth  his  course  descends  ; 

He  catches  up  the  astonished  youth, 
Right  from  among  his  friends. 

"  Yes,  youth,  I  now  am  Lord  of  all, 
The  earth  is  my  possession  ; 
I  always  told  thee  I  was  bound 
To  rise  in  my  profession. 

"  And  miracles  I  too  can  work, 
To  set  thee  wild  with  pleasure  ; 
And  now  I'll  make  the  town  Ix-Ix* 
Rejoice  beyond  all  measure : 


*  Or  X,  x.   In  one  edition  Heine  calls  this  town  Berlin. — Note  by  Translator. 


—    40  - 


"  For  every  stone  which  paves  the  street 
Shall  now  be  split  in  "two  ; 
And  in  the  midst  shall  sparkle  bright 
An  oyster  fresh  as  dew. 

"  A  gentle  shower  of  lemon-juice 
Shall  give  the  oysters  savour ; 
The  gutters  of  the  streets  must  run 
With  hock  of  extra  flavour." 

How  the  Ix-Ixers  go  to  work  ! 

What  cries  of  joy  they  utter  1 
The  council  and  the  aldermen 

Are  swilling  up  the  gutter. 

And  how  the  poets  all  rejoice, 
To  see  things  done  so  neatly  ; 

The  ensigns  and  lieutenants  too, 

Have  cleaned  the  streets  completely. 

The  wisest  are  the  officers, 

For,  speculation  scorning ; 
They  sagely  say,  "  such  miracles 

Don't  happen  every  morning." 


69. 

From  loveliest  lips  have  I  alas  been  driven, 
From  fairest  arms  enforc6d  to  withdraw  ; 

Long  had  I  gladly  rested  in  this  heaven, 

But  with  his  carriage  came  my  brother-in-law. 

And  such  is  life,  my  child  ; — an  endless  plaining, 
A  ceaseless  parting,  and  a  long  adieu  ; 

Could  not  thy  heart  charm  mine  into  remaining, 
Could  not  thine  eyes  win  me  and  hold  me  too  ? 


70. 

We  rode  in  the  dark  post-carriage, 
W e  travelled  all  night  alone ; 

We  slept  and  we  jested  together, 
We  laughed  until  morning  shone. 


—   41  — 


But  as  daylight  came  dawning  o'er  us, 
My  dear,  how  we  started  to  find 

Between  us  a  traveller  named  Cupid, 
Who  had  ventured  on  "going  it  blind."* 


71. 

Lord  knows  where  the  wild  young  huzzy 
Whom  I  seek,  has  settled  down ; 

Swearing  at  the  rain  and  weather, 
I  have  scoured  through  all  the  town. 

I  have  run  from  inn  to  tavern — 

Ne'er  a  bit  of  news  I  gain  ; 
And  of  every  saucy  waiter 

I've  inquired — and  all  in  vain. 

There  she  is  ! — at  yonder  window — 
Smiling,  beckoning  to  me.    Well ! 

How  was  I  to  know  you  quartered, 
Miss,  in  such  a  grand  hotel? 


72. 

Like  dusky  dreams,  the  houses 

Stand  in  a  lengthened  row ; 
And  wrapped  in  my  Spanish  mantle, 

Through  the  shadow  I  silently  go. 

The  tower  of  the  old  cathedral 

Announces  that  midnight  has  come ; 

And  now,  with  her  charms  and  her  kisses, 
My  dearest  is  waiting  at  home. 


*  Doch  als  es  Morgens  tagte, 
Mein  Kind,  wie  staunten  wirJ 
Denn  zwischen  uns  sass  Amor 
Der  blinde  Passagier. 

I  have  heard  "  a  hlind  passenger"  described  as  the  one  who  sits  at  the  end  of  the 
Eilwagen  (or  Diligence),  where  there  is  no  window.  But  in  popular  parlance,  "  the  blind 
passenger"  is  one  who,  to  translate  a  bit  of  German  slang  by  its  American  equivalent, 
may  be  termed  a  "  self-elected  dead-head,"  or  an  individual  who  slips  in  and  out  of  an 
entertainment,  coach,  steamboat,  or  the  like,  without  paying  for  his  admission. 

Literally  this  verse  reads : — "  But  when  day  dawned,  my  child,  how  we  were  astonished, 
for  between  us  sat  Amor,  the  blind  passenger.— [Note  by  Translator.] 

4* 


—   42  — 


The  moon  is  my  boon  compauion, 

She  cheerily  lights  my  way, 
Till  1  come  to  the  house  of  my  true-love, 

And  then  to  the  moon  I  say : 

Many  thanks  for  thy  light,  old  comrade ; 

Receive  my  parting  bow ; 
For  the  rest  of  the  night  I'll  excuse  thee- 

Go  shine  upon  other  folks  now. 

And  if  thou  shouldst  "  light"  on  a  lover, 

Who  drearily  sorrows  alone, 
Console  him  as  thou  hast  consoled  me, 

In  the  wearisome  times  long  gone. 


73. 

What  lies  are  hid  in  kisses, 
What  delight  in  mere  parade ! 

To  betray  may  have  its  blisses, 
But  more  blest  is  the  betrayed. 

Say  what  thou  wilt,  my  fairest, 
Still  I  know  what  thou 'It  receive; 

I'll  believe  just  what  thou  swearest, 
And  will  swear  what  thou  'It  believe. 


74. 

Upon  thy  snowy  bosom 

I  laid  my  weary  head ; 
And  secretly  I  listened 

To  what  thy  heart-throbs  said. 

The  blue  hussars  come  riding 
With  trumpets,  to  the  gate ; 

And  to-morrow  she  who  loves  me 
Will  seek  another  mate. 

But  though  thou  leav'st  to-morrow 
To-day  thou  still  must  rest ; 

And  in  thy  lovely  arms,  love, 
Will  I  be  doubly  blest. 


—   43  — 


75. 

The  blue  hussars,  with  trumpets, 

Go  riding  on  their  way ; 
Again  I  come  to  thee,  love, 

And  bring  a  rose-bouquet. 

That  was  a  crazy  business, 

Trouble  in  every  part ; 
And  many  a  dashing  blade  was  drawn 

And  quartered  in  thy  heart. 


76. 

Long  ago,  when  very  young, 
Much  I  suffered,  much  I  sung 

Of  true  love's  burning  mood. 
But  now  I  find  that  wood  is  dear, 
The  fire  burns  lower  every  year, 

Ma  foil — and  that  is  good. 

Think  of  that,  young  beauty,  now ; 
Drive  those  sorrows  from  thy  brow, 

With  tears  and  love's  alarms. 
While  life  remains,  since  life  is  brief, 
Forget  thine  old  love,  and  its  grief, 

Ma  foil — in  my  fond  arms. 


77. 

How  the  eunuchs  were  complaining 
At  the  roughness  of  my  song : 

Complaining  and  explaining 

That  my  voice  was  much  too  strong. 

Then  delicately  thrilling 

They  all  began  to  sing ; 
Like  crystal  was  their  trilling, 

So  pure  it  seemed  to  ring. 

They  sang  of  passion  sweeping 
In  hot  floods  from  the  heart : 

The  ladies  all  were  weeping, 
In  a  rapturous  sense  of  Art ! 


—    44  — 


78. 

'Twas  just  in  the  midst  of  July  that  I  left  you, 
And  now  in  mid-winter  I  meet  you  once  more ; 
Then,  as  we  parted,  with  heat  ye  were  glowing, 
Now  ye  are  cool,  and  the  fever  is  o'er. 

Once  more  1  leave : — should  T  come  again  hither, 
Then  you  will  be  neither  burning  nor  cold ; 
Over  your  graves, — well-a-day! — I'll  be  treading, 
And  oh,  but  my  own  heart  is  weary  and  old ! 


79. 

And  dost  thou  really  hate  me, 
Art  thou  really  changed  so  sadly  ? 

I'll  complain  to  every-body 

That  thou  'st  treated  me  so  badly, 

Oh  red  lips, — so  ungrateful, 
How  could  ye  speak  unkindly, 

Of  him  who  kissed  so  fondly, 
Of  him  who  loved  so  blindly? 


80. 

And  those  are  still  the  heavenly  eyes, 
Which  mine  would  gently  greet ; 

And  those  are  still  the  coral  lips, 
Which  once  made  life  so  sweet. 

'Tis  the  same  voice  of  melody, 

I  once  so  gladly  heard ; 
I,  only,  am  no  more  the  same, 

But  changed  in  thought  and  word. 

Now  by  those  white  and  rounded  arms, 

I'm  passionately  pressed ; 
And  lie  upon  her  heart  and  feel, 

Gloomy  and  ill  at  rest. 


—   45  — 


81. 

Hound  the  walls  of  Salamanca 
Softly  blows  the  perfumed  air ; 

Oft  I  wander  with  my  Donna 
Of  a  summer's  evening  there. 

Hound  the  light  waist  of  my  lady 

My  embracing  arm  I  rest ; 
And  I  feel,  with  happy  fingers, 

The  proud  heaving  of  her  breast. 

Yet  a  murmur,  as  of  anguish, 

Through  the  linden  blossoms  streams; 
And  the  gloomy  mill-stream  'ncath  them 

Murmurs  long  and  evil  dreams. 

Ah,  Senora ! — dark  forebodings 
Of  "expulsion"  round  me  stalk; 

Then  about  fair  Salamanca 

We  no  more  can  take  our  walk. 


82. 

Scarce  had  we  met,  when,  in  glance  and  in  tone, 
I  saw  that  your  favourable  notice  I'd  got ; 
And  if  we  had  only  been  standing  alone, 
I  really  believe  we'd  have  kissed  on  the  spot. 

To-morrow  I  leave,  while  the  world  is  asleep. 
Away  as  of  old,  on  my  journey  I  go ; 
And  then  my  blonde  girl  from  the  window  will  peep, 
And  glances  of  love  at  the  window  I'll  throw. 


83. 

The  sunlight  is  stealing  o'er  mountain  and  river, 
The  cries  of  the  flocks  are  heard  over  the  plain ; 
My  love  and  my  lamb  and  my  darling  forever, 
How  glad  I  would  be,  could  I  see  thee  again. 

Upwards  I  look,  and  with  glances  full  loving, 
"  Darling,  adieu  !    I  must  wander  from  thee." 
Vainly  I  wait,  for  no  curtain  is  moving, 
She  lies  and  she  sleeps  and  she's  dreaming  of  me. 


—   46  — 

84. 

In  the  market-place  of  Halle 

There  stand  two  mighty  lions  ; 
Oh  thou  lion-pride  of  Halle : 

How  greatly  art  thou  tamed! 

In  the  market-place  of  Halle 

There  stands  a  mighty  giant ; 
He  hath  a  sword  yet  never  stirs, — 

He's  petrified  with  fear. 

In  the  market-place  of  Halle 

There  stands  a  mighty  church  ; 
"Where  the  Burschenschaft  and  the  Landsmannschaft 

Have  plenty  of  room  to  pray. 


85. 

Summer  eve  with  day  is  striving, 
Softly  gaining  wood  and  meadow ; 
Mid  blue  heavens  the  golden  moonlight 

Gleams,  in  perfumed  air  reviving. 

Crickets  round  the  brook  are  cheeping, 
Something  stirs  amid  the  water ; 
And  the  wanderer  hears  a  plashing, 

And  a  breath  amid  the  sleeping : 

There  alone,  beside  the  river, 
See ! — a  fair  Undine  is  bathing. 
Arms  and  bosom,  white  and  lovely, 

In  the  shimmering  moon-rays  quiver. 


86. 

On  strange  roads,  night  broods,  distressing 
Sickly  heart  and  wearied  limbs : 

Ah !  how  like  a  silent  blessing, 
The  soft  moonlight  o'er  me  swims. 


*  Student  Associations,  the  Burschenschaft  being  general  and  political  in  its  objects, 
while  the  Landsmannschaf tcr  are  local.  —Note  by  Translator. 


—   47  — 


Gentle  moon  . — thy  calm  rays  banish 
Far  away  my  night-born  fears, 

At  thy  glance  all  sorrows  vanish, 
And  my  eyes  run  o'er  with  tears. 

87. 

Death  is  a  cool  and  pleasant  night, 

Life  is  a  sultry  day. 

'Tis  growing  dark — I'm  weary ; 
For  day  has  tired  me  with  his  light. 

Over  my  bed  a  fair  tree  gleams, 
There  sings  a  nightingale  ; 
She  sings  of  xiaught  save  love ; 

I  hear  it  even  in  dreams. 


88. 

Say — where  is  thine  own  sweet  love, 
Whom  thou  hast  so  sweetly  sung; 

When  the  flames  of  magic  power 

Strangely  through  thy  wild  heart  sprung? 

Ah !  those  flames  no  longer  burn, 
And  my  heart  is  slow  to  move ; 

And  this  book's  the  burial  urn, 
With  the  ashes  of  my  love. 


THE  HARTZ  JOURNEY. 


"  Nothing  is  permanent  but  change,  nothing  constant  hut  death.  Every  pulsation  of 
the  heart  inflicts  a  wound,  and  life  would  be  an  endless  bleeding,  were  it  not  for  Poetry. 
She  secures  to  us  what  Nature  would  deny, — a  golden  age  without  rust,  a  spring  which 
naver  fades,  cloudless  prosperity  and  eternal  youth." 


Black  dress  coats  and  silken  stockings 
Snowy  ruffles  frilled  with  art, 

Gentle  speeches  and  embraces — 
Oh,  if  they  but  held  a  heart ! 

Held  a  heart  within  their  bosom, 
Warmed  by  love  which  truly  glows  ; 

Ah, — I'm  wearied  with  their  chanting 
Of  imagined  lover's  woes  ! 

1  will  climb  upon  the  mountains 
Where  the  quiet  cabin  stands, 

Where  the  wind  blows  freely  o'er  us, 
Where  the  heart  at  ease  expands. 

I  will  climb  upon  the  mountains, 

Where  the  dark  green  fir  trees  grow  ; 

Brooks  are  rustling — birds  are  singing, 
And  the  wild  clouds  headlong  go. 


(  1824.) 


BÖRNE 


5 


(49) 


—   50  — 


Then  farewell,  ye  polished  ladies, 
Polished  men  and  polished  hall  I 

I  will  climb  upon  the  mountain, 
Smiling  down  upon  you  all. 


The  town  of  Göttin  gen,  celebrated  for  its  sausages  and  University, 
belongs  to  the  King  of  Hanover,  and  contains  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  dwellings,  divers  churches,  a  lying-in-asylum,  an  observa- 
tory, a  prison,  a  library,  and  a  "  council-cellar,"  where  the  beer  is 
excellent.  The  stream  which  flows  by  the  town  is  termed  the  Leine, 
and  is  used  in  summer  for  bathing,  its  waters  being  very  cold,  and  in 
more  than  one  place  so  broad,  that  Luder  was  obliged  to  take  quite 
a  run  ere  he  could  leap  across.  The  town  itself  is  beautiful,  and 
pleases  most  when  looked  at — backwards.  It  must  be  very  ancient 
for  I  well  remember  that  five  years  ago,  when  I  was  there  matricu- 
lated, (and  shortly  after  "  summoned,")  it  had  already  the  same  grey, 
old-fashioned,  wise  look,  and  was  fully  furnished  with  beggars,  beadles, 
dissertations,  tea-parties  with  a  little  dancing,  washer-women,  com- 
pendiums,  roasted  pigeons,  Guelphic  orders,  professors,  ordinary  and 
extraordinary,  pipe-heads,  court-counsellors,  and  law-counsellors. 
Many  even  assert  that  at  the  time  of  the  great  migration  of  races, 
every  German  tribe  left  a  badly  corrected  proof  of  its  existence  in  the 
town,  in  the  person  of  one  of  its  members,  and  that  from  these 
descended  all  the  Vandals,  Frisians,  Suabians,  Teutons,  Saxons, 
Thuringians  and  others,  who  at  the  present  day  abound  in  Göttingen, 
where,  separately  distinguished  by  the  color  of  their  caps  and  pipe- 
tassels,  they  may  be  seen  straying  singly  or  in  hordes  along  the 
Weender-street.  They  still  fight  their  battles  on  the  bloody  arena 
of  the  Rasenmill,  Ritschenlcrug  and  Bovden,  still  preserve  the  mode 
of  life  peculiar  to  their  savage  ancestors,  and  are  still  governed  partly 
by  their  Duces,  whom  they  call  "  chief-cocks,"  and  partly  by  their 
primevally  ancient  law-book,  known  as  the  "  Comment,"  which  fully 
deserves  a  place  among  the  legibus  barbarorum. 

The  inhabitants  of  Göttingen,  are  generally  and  socially  divided 
into  Students,  Professors,  Philistines  and  Cattle,  the  points  of  differ- 
ence between  these  castes  being  by  no  means  strictly  defined.  The 
cattle  class  is  the  most  important.  I  might  be  accused  of  prolixity 
should  I  here  enumerate  the  names  of  all  the  students  and  of  all  the 
regular  and  irregular  professors ;  besides,  I  do  not  just  at  present 
distinctly  remember  the  appellations  of  all  the  former  gentlemen, 
while  among  the  professors,  are  many,  who  as  yet  have  no  name  at 


—   51  — 


all.  The  number  of  the  Göttingen  Philistines  must  be  as  numerous 
as  the  sands  (or  more  correctly  speaking,  as  the  mud)  of  the  sea ; 
indeed,  when  I  beheld  them  of  a  morning,  with  their  dirty  faces  and 
clean  bills,  -planted  before  the  gate  of  the  collegiate  court  of  justice, 
I  wondered  greatly  that  such  an  innumerable  pack  of  rascals  should 
ever  have  been  created. 

More  accurate  information  of  the  town  of  Güttingen  may  be  very 
conveniently  obtained  from  its  "Topography,"  by  K.  F.  H.  Marx. 
Though  entertaining  the  most  sacred  regard  for  its  author,  who  was 
my  physician,  and  manifested  for  me  much  esteem,  still  I  cannot  pass 
by  his  work  with  altogether  unconditional  praise,  inasmuch  as  he  has 
not  with  sufficient  zeal  combatted  the  erroneous  opinions  that  the  ladies 
of  Güttingen  have  not  enormous  feet.  On  this  point  I  speak  autho- 
ritatively, having  for  many  years  been  earnestly  occupied  with  a  refu- 
tation of  this  opinion.  To  confirm  my  views  I  have  not  only  studied 
comparative  anatomy  and  made  copious  extracts  from  the  rarest 
works  in  the  library,  but  have  also  watched  for  hours,  in  the  TVeender 
street,  the  feet  of  the  ladies  as  they  walked  by.  In  the  fundamentally 
erudite  treatise,  which  forms  the  result  of  these  studies,  I  speak 
Firstly,  Of  feet  in  general;  Secondly,  of  the  feet  of  antiquity; 
Thirdly,  of  elephants'  feet ;  Fourthly,  of  the  feet  of  the  Göttingen 
ladies ;  Fifthly,  I  collect  all  that  was  ever  said  in  Ulrich's  Garden 
on  the  subject  of  female  feet.  Sixthly,  I  regard  feet  in  their  con- 
nection with  each  other,  availing  myself  of  the  opportunity  to  extend 
my  observation  to  ankles,  calves,  knees,  &c,  and  finally  and  Seventhly, 
if  I  can  manage  to  hunt  up  sheets  of  paper  of  sufficient  size  I  will 
present  my  readers  with  some  copperplate  fac-similes  of  the  feet  of  the 
fair  dames  of  Göttingen. 

It  was  as  yet  very  early  in  the  morning  when  I  left  Göttingen,  and 
the  learned  *  *  *  beyond  doubt  still  lay  in  bed,  dreaming  that 
he  wandered  in  a  fair  garden,  amid  the  beds  of  which  grew  innu- 
merable white  papers  written  over  with  citations.  On  these  the 
sun  shone  cheerily,  and  he  plucked  them  and  planted  them  in  new 
beds  while  the  sweetest  songs  of  the  nightingales  rejoiced  his  old 
heart. 

Before  the  Weender  Gate,  I  met  two  native  and  diminutive  school 
boys,  one  of  whom  was  saying  to  the  other,  "  I  don't  intend  to  keep 
company  any  more  with  Theodore,  he  is  a  low  little  blackguard,  for 
yesterday  he  didn't  even  know  the  genitive  of  Mensa."  Insignificant 
as  these  words  may  appear,  I  still  regard  them  as  entitled  to  record — 
nay,  I  would  even  write  them  as  town-motto  on  the  gate  of  Güttingen, 


—    52  — 

for  the  young  bir^s  pipe  as  the  old  ones  sing,  and  the  expression  accu- 
rately indicates  the  narrow-minded  academic  pride  so  characteristic 
of  the  "  highly  learned"  Georgia  Augusta. 

Fresh  morning  air  blew  over  the  road,  the  birds  sang  cheerily,  and 
little  by  little,  with  the  breeze  and  the  birds,  my  mind  also  became 
fresh  and  cheerful.  Such  a  refreshment  was  needed  for  one  who  had 
long  been  imprisoned  in  a  stall  of  legal  lore.  Koman  casuists  had 
covered  my  soul  with  grey  cobwebs,  my  heart  was  cemented  firmly 
between  the  iron  paragraphs  of  selfish  systems  of  jurisprudence,  there 
was  an  endless  ringing  in  my  ears  of  such  sounds  as  "  Tribonian,  J us- 
tinian,  Hermogenian,  and  Blockheadian,"  and  a  sentimental  brace  of 
lovers  seated  under  a  tree,  appeared  to  me  like  an  edition  of  the 
Corpus  Juris  with  closed  clasps.  The  road  began  to  wear  a  more 
lively  appearance.  Milk-maids  occasionally  passed,  as  did  also  donkey 
drivers,  with  their  grey  pupils.  Beyond  Weende,  I  met  the  "  Shep- 
herd," and  "  Doris."  This  is  not  the  idyllic  pair  sung  by  Gessner,  but 
the  well-matched  University  beadles,  whose  duty  it  is  to  keep  watch 
and  ward,  so  that  no  students  fight  duels  in  Bovden,  and  above  all 
that  no  new  ideas  (such  as  are  generally  obliged  to  maintain  a  decen- 
nial quarantine  before  Göttingen,)  are  smuggled  in  by  speculative 
private  teachers.  Shepherd  greeted  me  very  collegially  and  conge- 
nially, for  he  too  is  an  author,  who  has  frequently  mentioned  my 
name  in  his  semi-annual  writings.  In  addition  to  this,  I  may  men- 
tion that  when,  as  was  frequently  the  case,  he  came  to  summon  me 
before  the  University  court  and  found  me  "  not  at  home ;"  he  was 
always  kind  enough  to  write  the  citation  with  chalk  upon  my  chamber 
door.  Occasionally  a  one-horse  vehicle  rolled  along,  well  packed  with 
students,  who  travelled  away  for  the  vacation — or  for  ever.  In  such 
a  university  town,  there  is  an  endless  coming  and  going.  Every 
three  years  beholds  a  new  student-generation,  forming  an  incessant 
human  tide,  where  one  vacation-wave  washes  along  its  predecessor, 
and  only  the  old  professors  remain  upright  in  the  general  flood, 
immovable  as  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt.  Unlike  their  oriental  cotem- 
poraries,  no  tradition  declares  that  in  them  treasures  of  wisdom  are 
buried. 

From  amid  the  "  myrtle  leaves,"  by  Kauschenwasser,  I  saw  two 
hopeful  youths  appear.  A  female,  who  there  carried  on  her  business, 
accompanied  them  as  far  as  the  highway,  clapped  with  a  practised 
hand  the  meagre  legs  of  the  horses,  laughed  aloud,  as  one  of  the  cav- 
aliers, inspired  with  a  very  peculiar  spirit  of  gallantry,  gave  her  a 
'•cut  behind"  with  his  whip,  and  travelled  off  for  Bovden.  The 


—    53  — 

youths,  however,  rattled  along  towards  Körten,  trilling  in  a  highly 
intelligent  manner,  and  singing  the  Rossinian  lay  of  "Drink  beer, 
pretty,  pretty  'Liza !"  These  sounds  I  continued  to  hear  when  far  in 
the  distance,  and  after  I  had  long  lost  sight  of  the  amiable  vocalists, 
as  their  horses,  which  appeared  to  be  gifted  with  characters  of  extreme 
German  deliberation,  were  spurred  and  lashed  in  a  most  excruciating 
style.  In  no  place  is  the  skinning  alive  of  horses  carried  to  such  an 
extent  as  in  Göttingen ;  and  often,  when  I  beheld  some  lame  and 
sweating  hack,  who,  to  earn  the  scraps  of  fodder  which  maintained 
his  wretched  life,  was  obliged  to  endure  the  torment  of  some  roaring 
blade,  or  draw  a  whole  wagon  load  of  students — I  reflected  :  "Unfor- 
tunate beast, — most  certainly  thy  first  ancestors,  in  some  horse  para- 
dise, did  eat  of  forbidden  oats." 

In  the  tavern  at  Nörten  I  again  met  my  two  vocalists.  One 
devoured  a  herring-salad,  and  the  other  amused  himself  with  the 
leathern  complexioned  waiting-maid,  Fusia  Canina,  also  known  as 
Stepping-Bird.*  He  passed  from  compliments  to  caresses,  until 
they  became  finally  "  hand  in  glove"  together.  To  lighten  my  knap- 
sack, I  extracted  from  it  a  pair  of  blue  pantaloons,  which  were  some- 
what remarkable  in  a  historical  point  of  view,  and  presented  them  to 
the  little  waiter,  whom  we  called  Humming  Bird.  The  old  landlady, 
Bussenia,  brought  me  bread  and  butter,  and  greatly  lamented  that  I 
so  seldom  visited  her,  for  she  loved  me  dearly. 

Beyond  Nörten  the  sun  flashed  high  in  heaven.  He  evidently 
wished  to  treat  me  honorably,  and  warmed  my  heart  until  all  the 
unripe  thoughts  which  it  contained  came  to  full  growth.  The  admi- 
rable Sun  Tavern,  in  Nörten,  should  not  be  passed  over  in  silence,  for 
it  was  there  that  I  breakfasted.  All  the  dishes  were  excellent,  and 
suited  me  far  better  than  the  wearisome,  academical  courses  of  salt- 
less,  leathery  dried  fish  and  cabbage  rechavffee,  which  characterized 
both  our  physical  and  mental  pabulum  at  Göttingen.  After  I  had 
somewhat  appeased  my  appetite,  I  remarked  in  the  same  room  of  the 
tavern,  a  gentleman  and  two  ladies,  who  appeared  about  to  depart  on 
their  jourhey.  The  cavalier  was  clad  entirely  in  green,  even  to  his 
eyes,  over  which  a  pair  of  green  spectacles  cast  in  turn  a  verdigrease 
glow  upon  his  copper-red  nose.  The  gentleman's  general  appear- 
ance was  that  which  we  may  presume  King  Nebuchadnezzar  to 
have  presented,  after  having  passed  a  few  years  out  at  grass. 


*  Trittvogel,  or  "  Step-bird,"  signifies,  in  German  student  slang,  one  who  demands  money; 
ft  Manicheart.or  creditor.  &c>  [ÄTote  bu  Translator.'] 

5* 


—    54  — 


The  Green  One  requested  me  to  recommend  him  to  a  hotel  in  Göttin- 
gen,  and  I  advised  him  when  there  to  inquire  of  the  first  convenient 
student  for  the  Hotel  de  Brübach.  One  lady  was  evidently  his  wife : 
an  altogether  extensively  constructed  dame,  gifted  with  a  mile-square 
countenance,  with  dimples  in  her  cheeks  which  looked  like  hide-and- 
go-seek  holes  for  well  grown  cupids.  A  copious  double  chin  appeared 
below,  like  an  imperfect  continuation  of  the  face,  while  her  high-piled 
bosom,  which  was  defended  by  stiff  points  of  lace,  and  a  many-cor- 
nered collar,  as  if  by  turrets  and  bastions,  reminded  one  of  a  fortress. 
iStill  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  this  fortress  would  have  resisted 
an  ass  laden  with  gold,  any  more  than  did  thai  of  which  Philip  of 
Macedon  spoke.  The  other  lady,  her  sister,  seemed  her  extreme 
anti-type.  If  the  one  were  descended  from  Pharaoh's  fat  kine,  the 
other  was  as  certainly  derived  from  the  lean.  Her  face  was  but  a 
mouth  between  two  ears  ;  her  breast  was  as  inconsolably  comfortless 
and  dreary  as  the  Lüneburger  heath ;  while  her  altogether  dried-up 
figure  reminded  one  of  a  charity-table  for  poor  students  of  theology. 
Both  ladies  asked  me,  in  a  breath,  if  respectable  people  lodged  in  the 
Hotel  de  Brübach?  I  assented  to  this  question  with  certainty,  and  a 
clear  conscience,  and  as  the  charming  trio  drove  away,  I  waved  my 
hand  to  them  many  times  from  the  window.  The  landlord  of  the 
Sun  laughed,  however,  in  his  sleeve,  being  probably  aware  that  the 
Hotel  de  Brübach  was  a  name  bestowed  by  the  students  of  Göttin- 
gen upon  their  University  prison. 

Beyond  Kordheim  mountain  ridges  begin  to  appear,  and  the  travel- 
ler occasionally  meets  with  a  picturesque  eminence.  The  wayfarers 
whom  I  encountered  were  principally  pedlars,  travelling  to  the 
Brunswick  fair,  and  among  them  were  swarms  of  women,  every  one 
of  whom  bore  on  her  back  an  incredibly  large  pack,  covered  with 
linen.  In  these  packs  were  cages,  containing  every  variety  of  sing- 
ing birds,  which  continually  chirped  and  sung,  while  their  bearers 
merrily  hopped  along  and  sang  together.  A  queer  fancy  came  into 
my  head,  that  I  beheld  one  bird  carrying  others  to  market. 

The  night  was  dark  as  pitch  as  I  entered  Osterode.  I  had  no 
appetite  for  supper,  and  at  once  went  to  bed.  I  was  as  tired  as  a 
dog  and  slept  like  a  god.  In  my  dreams  I  returned  to  Göttingen, 
even  to  its  very  library.  I  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  Hall  of  Juris- 
prudence, turning  over  old  dissertations,  lost  myself  in  reading,  and 
when  I  finally  looked  up,  remarked  to  my  astonishment  that  it  was 
night,  and  that  the  Hall  was  illuminated  by  innumerable  over-hang- 
ing crystal  chandeliers.    The  bell  of  the  neighbouring  church  struck 


—   55  — 


twelve,  the  hall  doors  slowly  opened,  and  there  entered  a  superb 
colossal  female  form,  reverentially  accompanied  by  the  members  and 
hangers  on  of  the  legal  faculty.  The  giantess  though  advanced  in 
years  retained  in  her  countenance  traces  of  extreme  beauty,  and  her 
every  glance  indicated  the  sublime  Titaness,  the  mighty  Themis. 
The  sword  and  balance  were  carelessly  grasped  in  her  right  hand, 
while  with  the  left  she  held  a  roll  of  parchment.  Two  young  Dodores 
Juris  bore  the  train  of  her  faded  grey  robe;  by  her  right  side  the 
lean  Court  Counsellor  Rusticus,  the  Lycurgus  of  Hanover,  fluttered 
here  and  there  like  a  zephyr,  declaiming  extracts  from  his  last  legal 
essay,  while  by  her  left,  her  cavaliere  servante,  the  privy  legal  coun- 
sellor Cajacius,  hobbled  gaily  and  gallantly  along,  constantly  crack- 
ing legal  jokes,  laughing  himself  so  heartily  at  his  own  wit,  that 
even  the  serious  goddess  often  smiled  and  bent  over  him,  exclaiming 
as  she  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  great  parchment  roll, 
"  Thou  little  scamp  who  cuttest  down  the  tree  from  the  top  !"  All 
of  the  gentlemen  who  formed  her  escort  now  drew  nigh  in  turn,  each 
having  something  to  remark  or  jest  over,  either  a  freshly  worked  up 
system,  or  a  miserable  little  hypothesis,  or  some  similar  abortion  of 
their  own  brains.  Through  the  open  door  of  the  hall  now  entered 
many  strange  gentlemen,  who  announced  themselves  as  the  remain- 
ing magnates  of  the  illustrious  order ;  mostly  angular  suspicious 
looking  fellows,  who  with  extreme  complacency  blazed  away  with 
their  definitions  and  hair-splittings,  disputing  over  every  scrap  of  a 
title  to  the  title  of  a  pandect.  And  other  forms  continually  flocked 
in,  the  forms  of  those  who  were  learned  in  law  in  the  olden  time, — 
men  in  antiquated  costume,  with  long  counsellor's  wigs  and  forgotten 
faces,  who  expressed  themselves  greatly  astonished  that  they,  the 
widely  famed  of  the  previous  century,  should  not  meet  with  especial 
consideration ;  and  these,  after  their  manner,  joined  in  the  general 
chattering  and  screaming,  which  like  ocean  breakers  became  louder 
and  madder  around  the  mighty  Goddess,  until  she,  bursting  from 
impatience  suddenly  cried,  in  a  tone  of  the  most  agonized  Titanic 
pain,  "  Silence  !  Silence  ?  I  hear  the  voice  of  the  loved  Prometheus, — 
mocking  cunning  and  brute  force  are  chaining  the  innocent  One 
to  the  rock  of  martyrdom,  and  all  your  prattling  and  quarrelling  will 
not  allay  his  wounds  or  break  his  fetters  !"  So  cried  the  Goddess, 
and  rivulets  of  tears  sprang  from  her  eyes,  the  entire  assembly 
howled  as  if  in  the  agonies  of  death,  the  ceiling  of  the  hall  burst 
asunder,  the  books  tumbled  madly  from  their  shelves,  and  in  vain 
the  portrait  of  old  Munchausen  called  out  "order"  from  his  frame, 


—   56  — 

for  all  crashed  and  raged  more  wildly  around.  I  sought  refuge  from 
this  Bedlam  broke  loose,  in  the  Hall  of  History,  near  that  gracious 
spot  where  the  holy  images  of  the  Apollo  Belvedere  and  the  Yenus 
de  Medici  stand  near  together,  and  I  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  Goddess 
of  Beauty,  in  her  glance  I  forgot  all  the  wearisome  barren  labour 
which  I  had  passed,  my  eyes  drank  in  with  intoxication  the  symmetry 
and  immortal  loveliness  of  her  infinitely  blessed  form  ;  Hellenic  calm 
swept  through  my  soul,  while  above  my  head,  Phoebus  Apollo  poured 
forth  like  heavenly  blessings,  the  sweetest  tones  of  his  lyre. 

Awaking,  I  continued  to  hear  a  pleasant  musical  ringing.  The 
flocks  were  on  their  way  to  pasture,  and  their  bells  were  tinkling. 
The  blessed  golden  sunlight  shone  through  the  window,  illuminating 
the  pictures  on  the  walls  of  my  room.  They  were  sketches  from  the 
war  of  Independence,  and  among  them  were  placed  representations 
of  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI.  on  the  guillotine,  and  other  decapi- 
tations which  no  one  could  behold  without  thanking  God  that  he  lay 
quietly  in  bed,  drinking  excellent  coffee,. and  with  his  head  com- 
fortably adjusted  upon  neck  and  shoulders. 

After  I  had  drunk  my  coffee,  dressed  myself,  read  the  inscriptions 
upon  the  window-panes  and  set  everything  straight  in  the  inn,  1 
left  Osterode. 

This  town  contains  a  certain  quantity  of  houses  and  a  given 
number  of  inhabitants,  among  whom  are  divers  and  sundry  souls, 
as  may  be  ascertained  in  detail  from  "  Gottschalk's  Pocket  Book 
for  Hartz-travellers."  Ere  I  struck  into  the  highway  I  ascended 
the  ruins  of  the  very  ancient  Osteroder  Burg.  They  consisted  of 
merely  the  half  of  a  great,  thick-walled  tower,  which  appeared  to  be 
fairly  honeycombed  by  time.  The  road  to  Clausthal,  led  me  again 
up-hill,  and  from  one  of  the  first  eminences  I  looked  back  into  the 
dale  where  Osterode,  with  its  red  roofs  peeps  out  from  among  the 
green  fir  woods,  like  a  moss-rose  from  amid  its  leaves.  The  pleasant 
sunlight  inspired  gentle,  child-like  feelings.  From  this  spot  the 
imposing  rear  of  the  remaining  portion  of  the  tower  may  be  seen 
to  advantage. 

After  proceeding  a  little  distance,  I  overtook  and  went  along  with 
a  travelling  journeyman,  who  came  from  Brunswick,  and  related  to 
me,  that  it  was  generally  believed  in  that  city,  that  their  young  Duke 
had  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  Turks  during  his  tour  in  the  Holy 
Land,  and  could  only  be  ransomed  by  an  enormous  sum.  The  exten- 
sive travels  of  the  Duke  probably  originated  this  tale.  The  people 
at  large,  still  preserve  that  traditional  fable-loving  train  of  ideas, 


—   57  — 


which  is  so  pleasantly  shown  in  their  "  Duke  Ernst.*'  The  narrator 
of  this  news,  was  a  tailor,  a  neat  little  youth,  but  so  thin,  that  the 
stars  might  have  shone  through  him  as  through  Ossian's  ghosts. 
Altogether,  he  formed  a  vulgar  mixture  of  affectation,  whim  and 
melancholy.  This  was  peculiarly  expressed  in  the  droll  and  affecting 
manner  in  which  he  sang  that  extraordinary  popular  ballad,  "  A 
beetle  sat  upon  the  hedge,  summ,  summ  /"  That  is  a  pleasant  pecu- 
liarity of  us  Germans.  No  one  is  so  crazy  but  that  he  may  find  a 
crazier  comrade,  who  will  understand  him.  Only  a  German  can 
appreciate  that  song,  and  in  the  same  breath  laugh  and  cry  himself 
to  death  over  it.  On  this  occasion,  I  also  remarked  the  depth  to 
which  the  words  of  Goethe  have  penetrated  into  the  national  life. 
My  lean  comrade  trilled  occasionally  as  he  went  along.  "  J oyful  and 
sorrowful,  thoughts  are  free  !"  Such  a  corruption  of  a  text  is  usual 
among  the  multitude.  He  also  sang  a  song  in  which  "  Lottie  by  the 
grave  of  Werther"  wept.  The  tailor  ran  over  with  sentimentalism  in 
the  words,  "  Sadly  by  the  rose-beds  now  I  weep,  where  the  late  moon 
found  us  oft  alone  !  Moaning  where  the  silver  fountains  sleep,  which 
rippled  once  delight  in  every  tone."  But  he  soon  became  capricious 
and  petulant,  remarking,  that  "  We  have  a  Prussian  in  the  tavern  at 
Cassel,  who  makes  exactly  such  songs,  himself.  He  can't  sew  a 
single  decent  stitch ;  when  he  has  a  penny  in  his  pocket  he  always 
has  twopence  worth  of  thirst  with  it,  and  when  he  has  a  drop  in  his 
eye,  he  takes  heaven  to  be  a  blue  jacket,  weeps  like  a  roof-spout, 
and  sings  a  song  with  double  poetry."  I  desired  an  explanation  of 
this  last  expression,  but  my  tailoring  friend,  hopped  about  on  his 
walking-cane  legs  and  cried  incessantly,  "  Double  poetry  is  double 
poetry,  and  nothing  else."  Finally,  I  ascertained  that  he  meant 
doubly  rhymed  poems,  or  stanzas.  Meanwhile,  owing  to  his  extra 
exertion,  and  an  adverse  wind,  the  Knight  of  the  Needle  became 
sadly  weary.  It  is  true  that  he  still  made  a  great  pretence  of 
advancing,  and  blustered,  "  Now  I  will  take  the  road  between  my 
legs."  But  he,  immediately  after,  explained  that  his  feet  were  blis- 
tered, and  that  the  world  was  by  far  too  extensive,  and  finally  sinking 
down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  he  moved  his  delicate  little  head  like  the 
tail  of  a  troubled  lamb,  and  woefully  smiling,  murmured,  "  Here  am 
I,  poor  vagabond,  already  again  weary  !" 

The  hills  here  became  steeper,  the  fir-woods  waved  below  like  a 
green  sea,  and  white  clouds  above,  sailed  along  over  the  blue  sky. 
The  wildness  of  the  region  was,  however,  tamed  by  its  uniformity 
and  the  simplicity  of  its  elements.    Nature,  like  a  true  poet,  abhors 


—   58  — 

abrupt  transitions.  Clouds — however  fantastically  formed  they  may 
at  times  appear — still  have  a  white,  or  at  least,  a  subdued  hue,  har- 
moniously corresponding  with  the  blue  heaven  and  the  green  earth  ; 
so  that  all  the  colours  of  a  landscape  blend  into  each  other  like  soft 
music,  and  every  glance  at  such  a  natural  picture,  tranquillizes  and 
re-assures  the  soul.  The  late  Hoffman  would  have  painted  the 
clouds  spotted  and  checquered.  And  like  a  great  poet,  Nature  knows 
how  to  produce  the  greatest  effects  with  the  most  limited  means. 
There  she  has  only  a  sun,  trees  and  flowers,  water  and  love.  Of 
course,  if  the  latter  be  lacking  in  the  heart  of  the  observer,  the  whole 
will,  in  all  probability,  present  but  a  poor  appearance,  the  sun  will 
be  so  and  so  many  miles  in  diameter,  the  trees  are  for  fire-wood,  the 
flowers  are  classified  according  to  their  stamens,  and  the  water  is 
wet. 

A  little  boy  who  was  gathering  brushwood  in  the  forest  for  his 
sick  uncle,  pointed  out  to  me  the  village  of  Lerrbach,  whose  little 
huts  with  grey  roofs  scatter  along  for  two  miles  through  the  valley. 
14  There,"  said  he,  "  live  idiots  with  goitres,  and  white  negroes."  By 
white  negroes  the  people  mean  albinos.  The  little  fellow  lived  on 
terms  of  peculiar  understanding  with  the  trees,  addressing  them  like 
old  acquaintances,  while  they  in  turn  seemed  by  their  waving  and 
rustling  to  return  his  salutations.  He  chirped  like  a  thistle-finch, 
many  birds  around  answered  his  call,  and  ere  I  was  aware,  he  had 
disappeared  with  his  little  bare  feet  and  his  bundle  of  brush,  amid 
the  thickets.  "  Children,"  thought  I,  "  are  youuger  than  we,  they 
can  perhaps  remember  when  they  were  once  trees  or  birds,  and  are, 
consequently  still  able  to  understand  them.  We  of  larger  growth, 
arc  alas,  too  old  for  that,  and  carry  about  in  our  heads  too  much  legal 
lore,  and  too  many  sorrows  and  bad  verses."  But  the  time  when  it 
was  otherwise,  recurred  vividly  to  me  as  I  entered  Clausthal.  In 
this  pretty  little  mountain  town,  which  the  traveller  does  not  behold 
until  he  stands  directly  before  it,  I  arrived  just  as  the  clock  was 
striking  twelve  and  the  children  came  tumbling  merrily  out  of  school. 
The  little  rogues — nearly  all  red-cheeked,  blue-eyed,  flaxen-haired, 
sprang  and  shouted,  and  awoke  in  me,  melancholy  and  cheerful 
memories,  how  I  once  myself,  as  a  little  boy,  sat  all  the  forenoon 
long  in  a  gloomy  catholic  cloister  school  in  Düsseldorf,  without  so  much 
as  daring  to  stand  up,  enduring  meanwhile  such  a  terrible  amount  of 
Latin,  whipping  and  geography,  and  how  I  too,  hurrahed  and  rejoiced 
beyond  all  measure,  when  the  old  Franciscan  clock  at  last  struck 
twelve.    The  children  saw  by  my  knapsack  that  I  was  a  stranger. 


r 


—    59  — 


and  greeted  me  in  the  most  hospitable  manner.  One  of  the  boya 
told  me  that  they  had  just  had  a  lesson  in  religion,  and  showed  me 
the  Eoyal  Hanoverian  Catechism,  from  which  they  were  questioned 
on  Christianity.  This  little  book  was  very  badly  printed,  so  that  I 
greatly  feared  that  the  doctrines  of  faith  made  thereby  but  an 
unpleasant  blotting-paper  sort  of  impression  upon  the  children's 
minds.  I  was  also  shocked  at  observing  that  the  multiplication  table 
contrasted  with  the  Holy  Trinity  on  the  last  page  of  the  catechism, 
as  it  at  once  occurred  to  me  that  by  this  means  the  minds  of  the 
ehildren  might,  even  in  their  earliest  years,  be  led  to  the  most  sinful 
skepticism.  "We  Prussians  are  more  intelligent,  and  in  our  zeal  for 
converting  those  heathens  who  are  familiar  with  arithmetic,  take 
good  care  not  to  print  the  multiplication  table  behind  the  catechism. 

I  dined  in  the  "  Crown,"  at  Clausthal.  My  repast  consisted  of 
spring-green,  parsley-soup,  violet-blue  cabbage,  a  pile  of  roast  veal, 
which  resembled  Chimborazo  in  miniature,  and  a  sort  of  smoked  her- 
rings, called  Buckings,  from  their  inventor,  "William  Bucking,  who 
died  in  1447,  and  who  on  account  of  the  invention  was  so  greatly 
honored  by  Charles  Y.  that  the  great  monarch  in  1556  made  a 
journey  from  Middleburg  to  Bievlied  in  Zealand,  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  visiting  the  grave  of  the  great  fish-drier.  How  exquisitely 
such  dishes  taste  when  we  are  familiar  with  their  historical  associa- 
tions. Unfortunately,  my  after-dinner  coffee  was  spoiled  by  a  youth, 
who  in  conversing  with  me  ran  on  in  such  an  outrageous  strain  of 
noise  and  vanity  that  the  milk  was  soured.  He  was  a  young  counter- 
jumper,  wearing  twenty-five  variegated  waistcoats,  and  as  many  gold 
seals,  rings,  breastpins,  &c.  He  seemed  like  a  monkey  who  having 
put  on  a  red  coat  had  resolved  within  himself  that  clothes  make  the 
man.  This  gentleman  had  got  by  heart  a  vast  amount  of  charades 
and  anecdotes,  which  he  continually  repeated  in  the  most  inappro- 
priate places.  He  asked  for  the  news  in  Göttingen,  and  I  informed 
him  that  a  decree  had  been  recently  published  there  by  the  Academical 
Senate,  forbidding  any  one,  under  penalty  of  three  dollars,  to  dock 
puppies'  tails, — because  during  the  dog-days,  mad  dogs  invariably  ran 
with  their  tails  between  their  legs,  thus  giving  a  warning  indication 
of  the  existence  of  hydrophobia,  which  could  not  be  perceived  were 
the  caudal  appendage  absent.  After  dinner  I  went  forth  to  visit  the 
mines,  the  mint,  and  the  silver  refineries. 

In  the  silver  refinery  as  has  frequently  been  my  luck  in  life,  I  could 
get  no  glimpse  of  the  precious  metal.  In  the  mint  I  succeeded  better, 
and  saw  how  money  was  made.    Beyond  this  I  have  never  been  able 


—    60  — 


to  advance.  On  such  occasions,  mine  has  invariably  been  the  spec- 
tator's part,  aDd  I  verily  believe,  that  if  it  should  rain  dollars  from 
Heaven,  the  coins  would  only  knock  holes  in  my  head,  while  the 
children  of  Israel  would  merrily  gather  up  the  silver  manna.  With 
feelings  in  which  comic  reverence  was  blended  with  emotion,  I  beheld 
the  new-born  shining  dollars,  took  one  as  it  came  fresh  from  the  stamp, 
in  my  hand,  and  said  to  it :  "  Young  Dollar  !  what  a  destiny  awaits 
thee  !  what  a  cause  wilt  thou  be  of  good  and  of  evil !  How  thou  wilt 
protect  vice  and  patch  up  virtue,  how  thou  wilt  be  beloved  and 
accursed !  how  thou  wilt  aid  in  debauchery,  pandering,  lying,  and 
murdering  !  how  thou  wilt  restlessly  roll  along  through  clean  and  dirty 
hands  for  centuries,  until  finally  laden  with  trespasses,  and  weary 
with  sin,  thou  wilt  be  gathered  again  unto  thine  own,  in  the  bosom 
of  an  Abraham,  who  will  meft  thee  down  and  purify  thee,  and  form 
thee  into  a  new  and  better  being  !" 

I  will  narrate  in  detail  my  visit  to  "  Dorothea"  and  "  Caroline,"  the 
two  principal  Clausthaler  mines,  having  found  them  very  interesting. 

Half  a  German  mile  from  the  town,  are  situated  two  large,  dingy 
buildings.  Here  the  traveller  is  transferred  to  the  care  of  the  miners. 
These  men  wear  dark,  and  generally  steel-blue  colored,  jackets,  of 
ample  girth  descending  to  the  hips,  with  pantaloons  of  a  similar  hue, 
a  leather  apron  bound  on  behind,  and  a  rimless  green  felt  hat,  which 
resembles  a  decapitated  nine-pin.  In  such  a  garb,  with  the  exception 
of  the  "back-leather"  the  visitor  is  also  clad,  and  a  miner,  his  "leader," 
after  lighting  his  mine-lamp,  conducts  him  to  a  gloomy  entrance,  resem- 
bling a  chimney  hole,  descends  as  far  -as  the  breast,  gives  him  a  few 
directions  relative  to  grasping  the  ladder,  and  carelessly  requests  him 
to  follow.  The  affair  is  entirely  devoid  of  danger,  though  it  at  first 
appears  quite  otherwise  to  those  unacquainted  with  the  mysteries  of 
mining.  Even  the  putting  on  of  the  dark  convict-dress  awakens  very 
peculiar  sensations.  Then  one  must  clamber  down  on  all  fours,  the 
dark  hole  is  so  very  dark,  and  Lord  only  knows  how  long  the  ladder 
may  be  !  But  we  soon  remark  that  this  is  not  the  only  ladder  in  the 
black  eternity  around,  for  there  are  many  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
rounds  apiece,  each  standing  upon  a  board  capable  of  supporting  a 
man,  and  from  which  a  new  hole  leads  in  turn  to  a  new  ladder.  I 
first  entered  the  Caroline,  the  dirtiest  and  most  disagreeable  of  that 
name  with  whom  I  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  becoming  acquainted. 
The  rounds  of  the  ladders  were  covered  with  wet  mud.  And  from 
one  ladder  we  descended  to  another  with  the  guide  ever  in  advance, 
continually  assuring  us  that  there  is  no  danger  so  long  as  we  hold 


—   61  — 


firmly  to  the  rounds  and  do  not  look  at  our  feet,  and  that  we  must 
not  for  our  lives  tread  on  the  side  plank,  where  the  buzzing  barrel- 
rope  runs,  and  where  two  weeks  ago  a  careless  man  was  knocked 
down,  unfortunately  breaking  his  neck  by  the  fall.  Far  below  is  a 
confused  rustling  and  humming,  and  we  continually  bump  against 
beams  and  ropes  which  are  in  motion,  winding  up  and  raising  barrels 
of  broken  ore  or  of  water.  Occasionally  we  pass  galleries  hewn  in 
the  rock,  called  "  stulms,"  where  the  ore  may  be  seen  growing,  and 
where  some  solitary  miner  sits  the  livelong  day,  wearily  hammering 
pieces  from  the  walls.  I  did  not  descend  to  those  deepest  depths, 
where  it  is  reported  that  the  people  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  in 
America,  may  be  heard  crying,  "  Hurrah  for  Lafayette  !"  Where  I 
went,  seemed  to  me,  however,  deep  enough  in  all  conscience ;  amid 
an  endless  roaring  and  rattling,  the  mysterious  sounds  of  machinery, 
the  rush  of  subterranean  streams,  the  sickening  clouds  of  ore  dust 
continually  rising,  water  dripping  on  all  sides,  and  the  miner's  lamp 
gradually  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer.  The  effect  was  really  benumb- 
ing, I  breathed  with  difficulty,  and  held  with  trouble  to  the  slippery 
rounds.  It  was  not  fright  which  overpowered  me,  but  oddly  enough, 
down  there  in  the  depths,  I  remembered  that  a  year  before,  about 
the  same  time,  I  had  been  in  a  storm  on  the  North  Sea,  and  I  now 
felt  that  it  would  be  an  agreeable  change  could  I  feel  the  rocking 
of  the  ship,  hear  the  wind  with  its  thunder-trumpet  tones,  while  amid 
its  lulls  sounded  the  hearty  cry  of  the  sailors,  and  all  above  was  freshly 
swept  by  God's  own  free  air.  Yes,  Air ! — Panting  for  air,  I  rapidly 
climbed  several  dozens  of  ladders,  and  my  guide  led  me  through  a 
narrow  and  very  long  gallery  towards  the  Dorothea  mine.  Here  it 
is  airier  and  fresher,  and  the  ladders  are  cleaner,  though  at  the  same 
time  longer  than  in  the  Caroline.  I  felt  revived  and  more  cheer- 
ful, particularly  as  I  observed  indications  of  human  beings.  Far 
below  I  saw  wandering,  wavering  lights,  miners  with  their  lamps  came 
one  by  one  upwards,  with  the  greeting,  "  Good  luck  to  you !"  and 
receiving  the  same  salutation  from  us,  went  onwards  and  upwards. 
Something  like  a  friendly  and  quiet,  yet  at  the  same  time  terrific  and 
enigmatical,  recollection  flitted  across  my  mind  as  I  met  the  deep 
glances  and  earnest,  pale  faces  of  these  men,  mysteriously  illuminated 
by  their  lanterns,  and  thought  how  they  had  worked  all  day  in  lonely 
and  secret  places  in  the  mines,  and  how  they  now  longed  for  the 
blessed  light  of  day,  and  for  the  glances  of  wives  and  children. 

My  guide  himself  was  a  throroughly  honest,  honorable,  blundering 
German  being.    With  inward  joy  he  pointed  out  to  me  the  "stulm'' 

6 


—    62  — 


where  the  Duke  of  Cambridge,  when  he  visited  the  mines,  dined  with 
all  his  train,  and  where  the  long  wooden  table  yet  stands,  with  the 
accompanying  great  chair,  made  of  ore,  in  which  the  Duke  sat.  "  This 
is  to  remain  as  an  eternal  memorial,"  said  the  good  miner,  and  he 
related  with  enthusiasm  how  many  festivities  had  then  taken  place, 
how  the  entire  stulm  had  been  adorned  with  lamps,  flowers,  and  deco- 
rations of  leaves ;  how  a  miner  boy  had  played  on  the  cithern  and 
sung ;  how  the  dear,  delighted  fat  Duke  had  drained  many  healths, 
and  what  a  number  of  miners  (himself  especially)  would  cheerfully  die 
for  the  dear,  fat  Duke,  and  for  the  whole  house  of  Hanover.  I  am 
moved  to  my  very  heart  when  I  see  loyalty  thus  manifested  in  all  its 
natural  simplicity.  It  is  such  a  beautiful  sentiment !  And  such  a 
purely  German  sentiment!  Other  people  may  be  more  intelligent  and 
wittier,  and  more  agreeable,  but  none  are  so  faithful  as  the  real  Ger- 
man race.  Did  I  not  know  that  fidelity  is  as  old  as  the  world,  I 
would  believe  that  a  German  had  invented  it.  German  fidelity  is  no 
modern  "yours  very  truly,"  or,  "  I  remain  your  humble  servant."  In 
your  courts,  ye  German  princes,  ye  should  cause  to  be  sung,  and  sung 
again,  the  old  ballad  of  The  trusty  Eckhart  and  the  base  Burgund, 
who  slew  Eckhart's  seven  children,  and  still  found  him  faithful.  Ye 
have  the  truest  people  in  the  world,  and  ye  err  when  ye  deem  that  the 
old,  intelligent,  trusty  hound  has  suddenly  gone  mad,  and  snaps  at 
your  sacred  calves ! 

And  like  German  fidelity,  the  little  mine-lamp  has  guided  us 
quietly  and  securely,  without  much  flickering  or  flaring,  through  the 
labyrinth  of  shafts  and  stulms.  We  jump  from  the  gloomy  moun- 
tain-night— sunlight  flashes  around : — "  Luck  to  you !" 

Most  of  the  miners  dwell  in  Clausthal,  and  in  the  adjoining  smali 
town  of  Zellerfeld.  I  visited  several  of  these  brave  fellows,  observed 
their  little  household  arrangements,  heard  many  of  their  songs,  which 
they  skilfully  accompany  with  their  favorite  instrument,  the  cithern, 
and  listened  to  old  mining  legends,  and  to  their  prayers,  which  they 
are  accustomed  to  daily  offer  in  company  ere  they  descend  the  gloomy 
shaft.  And  many  a  good  prayer  did  I  offer  up  with  them.  One  old 
climber  even  thought  that  I  ought  to  remain  among  them,  and  be- 
come a  man  of  the  mines,  and  as  I,  after  all,  departed,  he  gave  me  a 
message  to  his  brother,  who  dwelt  near  Goslar,  and  many  kisses  for 
his  darling  niece. 

Immovably  tranfiuil  as  the  life  of  these  men  may  appear,  it  is, 
notwithstanding,  a  real  and  vivid  life.  That  ancient,  trembling  crone 
who  sits  before  the  great  clothes-press  and  behind  a  stove,  may  have 


—   63  — 

been  there  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  all  her  thinking  and 
feeling,  is,  beyond  a  doubt,  intimately  blended  with  every  corner 
of  the  stove  and  the  carvings  of  the  press.  And  clothes-press  and 
stove  live, — for  a  human  being  hath  breathed  into  them  a  portion  of 
its  soul. 

Only  a  life  of  this  deep-looking  into  phenomena  and  its  "  imme- 
diateness,"  could  originate  the  German  popular  tale  whose  peculiarity 
consists  in  this, — that  in  it,  not  only  animals  and  plants,  but  also 
objects  apparently  inanimate,  speak  and  act.  To  thinking,  harmless 
beings  who  dwelt  in  the  quiet  home-ness  of  their  lowly  mountain 
cabins  or  forest  huts,  the  inner  life  of  these  objects  was  gradually 
revealed,  they  acquired  a  necessary  and  consequential  character, 
a  sweet  blending  of  fantasy  and  pure  human  reflection.  This  is  the 
reason  why,  in  such  fables,  we  find  the  extreme  of  singularity  allied 
to  a  spirit  of  perfect  self-intelligence,  as  when  the  pin  and  the  needle 
wander  forth  from  the  tailor's  home  and  are  bewildered  in  the  dark  ; 
when  the  straw  and  the  coal  seek  to  cross  the  brook  and  are  de- 
stroyed ■*  when  the  dust-pan  and  broom  quarrel  and  fight  on  the 
stairs  ;  when  the  interrogated  mirror  of  "  Snow-drop"  shows  the 
image  of  the  fairest  lady,  and  when  even  drops  of  blood  begin  to 
utter  dark  words  of  the  deepest  compassion.  And  this  is  the  reason 
why  our  life  in  childhood  is  so  infinitely  significant,  for  then  all  things 
are  of  the  same  importance,  nothing  escapes  our  attention,  there  is 
equality  in  every  impression ;  while,  wiien  more  advanced  in  years, 
we  must  act  with  design,  busy  ourselves  more  exclusively  with 
particulars,  carefully  exchange  the  pure  gold  of  observation  for  the 
paper  currency  of  book-definitions,  and  win  in  the  breadth  of  life  what 
we  have  lost  in  depth.  Now,  we  are  grown-up,  respectable  people, 
we»  often  inhabit  new  dwellings,  the  house-maid  daily  cleans  them, 
and  changes  at  her  will  the  position  of  the  furniture  which  interests 
us  but  little,  as  it  is  either  new,  or  may  belong  to-day  to  Jack, 
to-morrow  to  Isaac.  Even  our  very  clothes  are  strange  to  us,  we 
hardly  know  how  many  buttons  there  are  on  the  coat  we  wear, — for 
we  change  our  garments  as  often  as  possible,  and  none  of  them 
remain  deeply  identified  with  our  external  or  inner  history.  We 


*  This  story  of  the  straw,  the  coal  arid  the  hean,  is  curiously  Latinized  in  the  Nugce 
Venales. 

"Pruna,  Faha,  et  Stramen  rivum  transire  lahorant,  seque  idio  in  ripis  Stramen  utriin- 
que  locat.  Sic  quasi  per  pontem  Faha  transit,  Pruna  sed  urit  Stramen,  et  in  medias 
prsecipitatur  aquas,  Hoc  cernens  nimio  risu  faha  rumpitur  imo  parte  sui,  hancque 
quasi  tacta  pudore  tegit. — [Note  by  Translator.} 


_    64  — 


scarce  dare  to  think  how  that  brown  vest  once  looked,  which  attracted 
so  much  laughter,  and  yet  on  the  broad  stripes  of  which,  the  dear 
hand  of  the  loved  one  so  gently  rested  ! 

The  old  dame  who  sat  before  the  clothes-press  and  behind  the 
stove,  wore  a  flowered  dress  of  some  old-fashioned  material,  which 
had  been  the  bridal-robe  of  her  long  buried  mother.  Her  great 
grandson,  a  flashing-eyed  blonde  boy,  clad  in  a  miner's  dress,  knelt 
at  her  feet,  and  counted  the  flowers  on  her  dress.  It  may  be  that 
she  has  narrated  to  him  many  a  story  connected  with  that  dress ; 
serious  or  pretty  stories,  which  the  boy  will  not  readily  forget,  which 
will  often  recur  to  him,  when  he,  a  grown  up  man,  works  alone  in  the 
midnight  galleries  of  the  Caroline,  and  which  he  in  turn  will  narrate 
when  the  dear  grandmother  has  long  been  dead  ;  and  he  himself,  a 
silver-haired,  tranquil  old  man,  sits  amid  the  circle  of  his  grand- 
children before  the  great  clothes-press  and  behind  the  oven. 

I  lodged  that  night  in  "The  Crown,"  where  I  had  the  pleasure  of 

meeting  and  paying  my  respects  to  the  old  Court  Counsellor  B  , 

of  Göttingen.  Having  inscribed  my  name  in  the  book  of  arrivals,  I 
found  therein  the  honoured  autograph  of  Adalbert  von  Chamisso, 
the  biographer  of  the  immortal  Sclilemihl.  The  landlord  remarked 
of  Chamisso,  that  the  gentleman  had  arrived  during  one  terrible 
storm,  and  departed  in  another. 

Finding  the  next  morning  that  I  must  lighten  my  knapsack,  I 
threw  overboard  the  pair  of  boots,  and  arose  and  went  forth  unto 
Goslar.  There  I  arrived  without  knowing  how.  This  much  alone 
do  I  remember,  that  I  sauntered  up  and  down  hill,  gazing  upon 
many  a  lovely  meadow  vale.  Silver  waters  rippled  and  rustled, 
sweet  wood-birds  sang,  the  bells  of  the  flocks  tinkled,  the  many 
shaded  green  trees  were  gilded  by  the  sun,  and  over  all  the  blue  "silk 
canopy  of  Heaven  was  so  transparent  that  I  could  look  through  the 
depths  even  to  the  Holy  of  Holies,  where  angels  sat  at  the  feet  of  God, 
studying  sublime  thorough-bass  in  the  features  of  the  eternal  coun- 
tenance. But  I  was  all  the  time  lost  in  a  dream  of  the  previous 
night,  and  which  I  could  not  banish.  It  was  an  echo  of  the  old 
legend,  how  a  knight  descended  into  a  deep  fountain,  beneath  which 
the  fairest  princess  of  the  world  lay  buried  in  a  death-like  magic 
slumber.  I  myself  was  the  knight,  and  the  dark  mine  of  Clausthal 
was  the  fountain.  Suddenly,  innumerable  lights  gleamed  around 
me,,  wakeful  dwarfs  leapt  from  every  cranny  in  the  rocks,  grimacing 
angrily,  cutting  at  me  with  their  short  swords,  blowing  terribly  on 
horns,  which  ever  summoned  more  and  more  of  their  comrades,  and 


—   65  — 

frantically  nodding  their  great  heads.  But  as  I  hewed  them  down 
with  my  sword,  and  the  blood  flowed,  I  for  the  first  time  remarked 
that  they  were  not  really  dwarfs,  but  the  red-blooming  long  bearded 
thistle  tops,  which  I  had  the  day  before  hewed  down  on  the  highway 
with  my  stick.  At  last  they  all  vanished  and  I  came  to  a  splendid 
lighted  hall,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  my  heart's  loved  one,  veiled 
in  white  and  immovable  as  a  statue.  I  kissed  her  mouth,  and  then 
— oh  Heavens  ! — I  felt  the  blessed  breath  of  her  soul  and  the  sweet 
tremor  of  her  lovely  lips.  It  seemed  that  I  heard  the  divine  com- 
mand "  Let  there  be  light !"  and  a  dazzling  flash  of  eternal  light  shot 
down,  but  at  the  same  instant  it  was  again  night,  and  all  ran  chaoti- 
cally together  into  a  wild  desolate  sea  !  A  wild  desolate  sea !  over 
whose  foaming  waves  the  ghosts  of  the  departed  madly  chased  each 
other,  the  white  shrouds  floating  on  the  wind,  while  behind  all, 
goading  them  on  with  cracking  whip,  ran  a  many  coloured  harlequin, 
— and  I  was  the  harlequin.  Suddenly  from  the  black  waves  the  sea- 
monsters  raised  their  misshapen  heads,  and  yawned  towards  me, 
with  extended  jaws,  and  I  awoke  in  terror. 

Alas  !  how  the  finest  dreams  may  be  spoiled  !  The  knight,  in  fact 
when  he  has  found  the  lady,  ought  to  cut  a  piece  from  her  priceless 
veil,  and  after  she  has  recovered  from  her  magic  sleep  and  sits  again 
in  glory  in  her  hall,  he  should  approach  her  and  say,  "  My  fairest 
princess,  dost  thou  not  know  me?"  Then  she  will  answer,  "My 
bravest  knight,  I  know  thee  not!"  And  then  he  shows  her  the  piece 
cut  from  her  veil,  exactly  fitting  the  deficiency,  and  she  knows  that 
he  is  her  deliverer,  and  both  tenderly  embrace,  and  the  trumpets 
sound,  and  the  marriage  is  celebrated  ! 

It  is  really  a  very  peculiar  misfortune  that  my  love-dreams  so  seldom 
have  so  fine  a  conclusion. 

The  name  of  Goslar  rings  so  pleasantly,  and  there  are  so  many 
very  ancient  and  imperial  associations  connected  therewith,  that  1 
had  hoped  to  find  an  imposing  and  stately  town.  But  it  is  always 
the  same  old  story  when  we  examine  celebrities  too  closely!  I 
found  a  nest  of  houses,  drilled  in  every  direction  with  narrow 
streets  of  labyrinthine  crookedness,  and  amid  which  a  miserable 
stream,  probably  the  Goslar,  winds  its  flat  and  melancholy  way.  The 
pavement  of  the  town  is  as  ragged  as  Berlin  hexameters.  Only  the 
antiquities  which  are  imbedded  in  the  frame,  or  mounting,  of  the 
city;  that  is  to  say,  its  remnants  of  walls,  towers  and  battlements, 
give  the  place  a  piquant  look.  One  of  these  towers,  known  as  the 
Zwinger,  or  donjon-keep,  has  walls  of  such  extraordinary  thickness, 

6* 


—   66  — 


that  entire  rooms  are  excavated  therein.  The  open  place  before  the 
town,  where  the  world-renowned  shooting  matches  are  held,  is  a  beau- 
tiful large  plain  surrounded  by  high  mountains.  The  market  is  small, 
and  in  its  midst  is  a  spring-fountain,  the  water  from  which  pours  into 
a  great  metallic  basin.  AVhen  an  alarm  of  fire  is  raised,  they  strike 
strongly  on  this  cup-formed  basin,  which  gives  out  a  very  loud  vibra- 
tion. Nothing  is  known  of  the  origin  of  this  work.  Some  say  that 
the  devil  placed  it  once  during  the  night  on  the  spot  where  it  stands. 
In  those  days  people  were  as  yet  fools,  nor  was  the  devil  any  wiser, 
and  they  mutually  exchanged  gifts. 

The  town  hall  of  Goslar  is  a  white-washed  police-station.  The 
Guildhall,  hard  by,  has  a  somewhat  better  appearance.  In  this 
building,  equidistant  from  roof  and  ceiling,  stand  the  statues  of  the 
German  emperors.  Partly  gilded,  and  altogether  of  a  smoke-black 
hue,  they  look  with  their  sceptres  and  globes  of  empire,  like  roasted 
college  beadles.  One  of  the  emperors  holds  a  sword,  instead  of  a 
sceptre.  I  cannot  imagine  the  reason  of  this  variation  from  the  estab- 
lished order,  though  it  has  doubtless  some  occult  signification,  as 
Germans  have  the  remarkable  peculiarity  of  meaning  something  in 
whatever  they  do. 

In  Gottschalk's  "  Handbook,"  I  had  read  much  of  the  very  ancient 
Dom,  or  Cathedral,  and  of  the  far-famed  imperial  throne  at  Goslar. 
But  when  I  wished  to  see  these  curiosities,  I  was  informed  that  the 
church  had  been  torn  down,  and  that  the  throne  had  been  carried  to 
Berlin.  We  live  in  deeply  significant  times,  when  millennial  churches 
are  shattered  to  fragments,  and  imperial  thrones  are  tumbled  into  the 
lumber  room. 

A  few  memorials  of  the  late  cathedral  of  happy  memory,  are  still 
preserved  in  the  church  of  St.  Stephen.  These  consist  of  stained 
glass  pictures  of  great  beauty,  a  few  indifferent  paintings,  including  a 
Lucas  Oranach,  a  wooden  Christ  crucified,  and  a  heathen  altar  of 
some  unknown  metal.  This  latter  resembles  a  long  square  box,  and 
is  supported  by  four  caryatides,  which  in  a  bowed  position  hold  their 
hands  over  their  heads,  and  make  the  most  hideous  grimaces.  But 
far  more  hideous  is  the  adjacent  wooden  crucifix  of  which  I  have  just 
spoken.  This  head  of  Christ,  with  its  real  hair  and  thorns  and 
blood-stained  countenance,  represents,  in  the  most  masterly  manner, 
the  death  of  a  man, — but  not  of  a  divinely  born  Saviour.  Nothing 
but  physical  suffering  is  portrayed  in  this  image, — not  the  sublime 
poetry  of  pain.  Such  a  work  would  be  more  appropriately  placed  in 
a  hall  of  anatomy  than  in  a  house  of  the  Lord. 


—    67  — 


I  lodged  in  a  tavern,  near  the  market,  where  I  should  have  enjoyed 
my  dinner  much  better,  if  the  landlord  with  his  long,  superfluous  face, 
and  his  still  longer  questions,  had  not  planted  himself  opposite  to  me. 
Fortunately  I  was  soon  relieved  by  the  arrival  of  another  stranger, 
who  was  obliged  to  run  in  turn  the  gauntlet  of  qids t  quid?  ubif 
quibus  avxiliis  ?  cur?  quomodo  ?  quaudo?  This  stranger  was  an  old, 
weary,  worn-out  man,  who,  as  it  appeared  from  his  conversation,  had 
been  all  over  the  world,  had  resided  very  long  in  Batavia,  had  made 
much  money,  and  lost  it  all,  and  who  now  after  thirty  years'  absence 
was  returning  to  Quedlinburg,  his  native  city, — "  for,"  said  he,  "  our 
family  has  there  its  hereditary  tomb."  The  landlord  here  made  the 
highly  intelligent  remark,  that  it  was  all  the  same  thing  to  the 
soul,  where  the  body  was  buried.  "  Have  you  scriptural  authority 
for  that  ?"  retorted  the  stranger,  while  mysterious  and  crafty  wrinkles 
circled  around  his  pinched  lips  and  faded  eyes.  "  But,"  he  added,  as 
if  nervously  desirous  of  conciliating, — "  I  mean  no  harm  against  graves 
in  foreign  lands, — oh,  no  ! — the  Turks  bury  their  dead  more  beauti- 
fully than  we  ours  ;  their  church-yards  are  perfect  gardens,  and  there 
they  sit  by  their  white  turbaned  grave-stones  under  cypress  trees, 
and  stroke  their  grave  beards,  and  calmly  smoke  their  Turkish  tobacco 
from  their  long  Turkish  pipes  ;  and  then  among  the  Chinese,  it  is  a 
real  pleasure  to  see  how  genteelly  they  walk  around,  and  pray,  and 
drink  tea  among  the  graves  of  their  ancestors,  and  how  beautifully 
they  bedeck  the  beloved  tombs  with  all  sorts  of  gilt  lacquered  work, 
porcelain  images,  bits  of  colored  silk,  fresh  flowers  and  variegated  lan- 
terns— all  very  fine  indeed — how  far  is  it  yet  to  Quedlinberg  ?" 

The  church-yard  at  Goslar  did  not  appeal  very  strongly  to  my 
feelings.  But  a  certain  very  pretty  blonde-ringletted  head  which 
peeped  smilingly  from  a  parterre  window  did.  After  dinner  I  again 
took  an  observation  of  this  fascinating  window,  but  instead  of  a 
maiden,  I  beheld  a  vase  containing  white  bell-flowers.  I  clambered 
up,  stole  the  flowers,  put  them  neatly  in  my  cap,  and  descended, 
unheeding  the  gaping  mouths,  petrified  noses,  and  goggle  eyes  with 
which  the  street  population,  and  especially  the  old  women,  regarded 
this  qualified  theft.  As  I,  an  hour  later,  passed  by  the  same  house, 
the  beauty  stood  by  the  window,  and  as  she  saw  the  flowers  in  my 
cap,  she  blushed  like  a  ruby,  and  started  back.  This  time  I  had  seen 
the  beautiful  face  to  better  advantage ;  it  was  a  sweet  transparent 
incarnation  of  summer  evening  air,  moonshine,  nightingale  notes  and 
rose-perfume.  Later — in  the  twilight  hour,  she  was  standing  at  the 
door.    I  came — I  drew  near— she  slowly  retreated  into  the  dark 


—   68  — 


entry — I  followed,  and  seizing  her  hand,  said,  "I  am  a  lover  of 
beautiful  flowers  and  of  kisses,  and  when  they  are  not  given  to  me,  I 
steal  them."  Here  I  quickly  snatched  a  kiss,  and  as  she  was  about 
to  fly,  I  whispered  apologetically,  "  To-morrow  I  leave  this  town  and 
never  return  again."  Then  I  perceived  a  faint  pressure  of  the  lovely 
lips  and  of  the  little  hand,  and  I — went  smiling  away.  Yes,  I  must 
smile  when  I  reflect  that  this  was  precisely  the  magic  formula  by 
which  our  red  and  blue-coated  cavaliers  more  frequently  win  female 
hearts,  than  by  their  mustachioed  attractiveness.  "  To-morrow  I  leave, 
and  never  return  again !" 

My  chamber  commanded  a  fine  view  towards  Eammelsberg.  It 
was  a  lovely  evening.  Night  was  out  hunting  on  her  black  steed,  and 
the  long  cloud  mane  fluttered  on  the  wind.  I  stood  at  my  window 
watching  the  moon.  Is  there  really  a  "  man  in  the  moon  ?"  The 
Slavonians  assert  that  there  is  such  a  being  named  Clotar,  and  he 
causes  the  moon  to  grow  by  watering  it.  When  I  was  little  they 
told  me  that  the  moon  was  a  fruit,  and  that  when  it  was  ripe,  it  was 
picked  and  laid  away,  amid  a  vast  collection  of  old  full  moons,  in 
a  great  bureau,  which  stood  at  the  end  of  the  world,  where  it  is 
nailed  up  with  boards.  As  I  grew  older,  I  remarked  that  the  world 
was  not  by  any  means  so  limited  as  I  had  supposed  it  to  be,  and  that 
human  intelligence  had  broken  up  the  wooden  bureau,  and  with  a 
terrible  "  Hand  of  Glory"  had  opened  all  the  seven  heavens.  Immor- 
tality— dazzling  idea !  who  first  imagined  thee  !  Was  it  some  jolly 
burgher  of  Nureinburg,  who  with  night-cap  on  his  head,  and  white 
clay  pipe  in  moujih,  sat  on  some  pleasant  summer  evening  before  his 
door,  and  reflected  in  all  his  comfort,  that  it  would  be  right  pleasant, 
if,  with  unextinguishable  pipe,  and  endless  breath,  he  could  thus 
vegetate  onwards  for  a  blessed  eternity  ?  Or  was  it  a  lover,  who  in 
the  arms  of  his  loved  one,  thought  the  immortality-thought,  and  that 
because  he  could  think  and  feel  naught  beside ! — Love !  Immortality ! 
it  speedily  became  so  hot  in  my  breast,  that  I  thought  the  geogra- 
phers had  misplaced  the  equator,  and  that  it  now  ran  directly  through 
my  heart.  And  from  my  heart  poured  out  the  feeling  of  love ; — it 
poured  forth  with  wild  longing  into  the  broad  night.  The  flowers  in 
the  garden  beneath  my  window  breathed  a  stronger  perfume.  Per- 
fumos  are  the  feelings  of  flowers,  and  as  the  human  heart  feels  most 
powerful  emotions  in  the  night,  when  it  believes  itself  to  be  alone 
and  unperceived,  so  also  do  the  flowers,  soft-minded,  yet  ashamed, 
appear  to  await  for  concealing  darkness,  that  they  may  give  themselves 
wholly  up  to  their  feelings,  and  breathe  them  out  in  sweet  odours. 


—    69  — 


Pour  forth,  ye  perfumes  of  my  heart,  and  seek  beyond  yon  blue 
mountain  for  the  loved  one  of  my  dreams !  Now  she  lies  in  slumber, 
at  her  feet  kneel  angels,  and  if  she  smiles  in  sleep  it  is  a  prayer  which 
angels  repeat ;  in  her  breast  is  heaven  with  all  its  raptures,  and  as 
she  breathes,  my  heart,  though  afar,  throbs  responsively.  Behind 
the  silken  lids  of  her  eyes,  the  sun  has  gone  down,  and  when  they 
are  raised,  the  sun  rises,  and  birds  sing,  and  the  bells  of  the  flock 
tinkle,  and  I  strap  on  my  knapsack  and  depart. 

During  the  night  which  I  passed  at  Goslar,  a  remarkably  curious 
occurrence  befel  me.  Even  now,  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  terror. 
I  am  not  by  nature  cowardly,  but  I  fear  gliosis  almost  as  much  as 
the  "  Austrian  Observer."  What  is  fear  ?  Does  it  come  from  the 
understanding  or  from  the  natural  disposition  ?  This  was  a  point 
which  I  frequently  disputed  with  Doctor  Saul  Ascher,  when  we 
accidently  met  in  the  Cafi  Koyal,  in  Berlin,  where  I  for  a  long  time 
dined.  The  doctor  invariably  maintained,  that  we  feared  any- 
thing, because  we  recognized  it  as  fearful,  owing  to  certain 
determinate  conclusions  of  the  reason.  Only  the  reason  was  an 
active  power, — not  the  disposition.  While  I  ate  and  drank  to  my 
heart's  content,  the  doctor  demonstrated  to  me  the  advantages  of 
reason.  Towards  the  end  of  Ms  dissertation,  he  was  accustomed  to 
look  at  his  watch  and  remark  conclusively,  "  Reason  is  the  highest 
principle  !"■ — Reason  !  Never  do  I  hear  this  word  without  recalling 
Doctor  Saul  Ascher,  with  his  abstract  legs,  his  tight  fitting  transcen- 
dental-gray long  coat,  and  his  immovably  icy  face,  which  resembled 
a  confused  amalgam  of  geometrical  problems.  This  man,  deep  in  the 
fifties,  was  a  personified  straight  line.  In  his  striving  for  the  posi- 
tive, the  poor  man  had  philosophised  everything  beautiful,  out  of 
existence,  and  with  it,  everything  like  sunshine,  religion  and  flowers, 
so  that  there  remained  nothing  for  him,  but  a  cold  positive  grave. 
The  Apollo  Belvedere  and  Christianity  were  the  two  especial  objects 
of  his  malice,  and  he  had  even  published  a  pamphlet  against  the 
latter,  in  which  he  had  demonstrated  its  unreasonableness  and 
untenableness.  In  addition  to  this,  he  had,  however,  written  a  great 
number  of  books,  in  all  of  which,  Reason  shone  forth  in  all  its  pecu- 
liar excellence,  and  as  the  poor  doctor  meant  what  he  said  in  all 
seriousness,  they  were,  so  far,  deserving  of  respect.  But  tue 
great  joke  consisted  precisely  in  this,  that  the  doctor  invariably  cut 
such  a  seriously-absurd  figure  in  not  comprehending  that  which 
every  child  comprehends,  simply  because  it  is  a  child.  I  visited  the 
doctor  several  times  in  his  own  house,  where  I  found  him  in  company 


—   70  — 

with  very  pretty  girls,  for  Eeason,  it  seems,  however  abstract,  does 
not  prohibit  the  enjoyment  of  the  things  of  this  world.  Once,  how- 
ever, when  I  called,  his  servant  told  me  that  the  "  Herr  Doctor"  had 
just  died.  I  experienced  as  much  emotion  on  this  occasion,  as  if  I 
had  been  told  that  the  "  Herr  Doctor"  had  just  stepped  out. 

To  return  to  Goslar.  "  The  highest  principle  is  Reason,"  said  I, 
consolingly  to  myself  as  I  slid  into  bed.  But  it  availed  me  nothing. 
I  had  just  been  reading  in  Varnhagen  von  Ense's  "  German  Narra- 
tions," which  I  had  brought  with  me  from  Clausthal,  that  terrible 
tale  of  a  sou,  who  when  about  to  murder  his  father,  was  warned  in 
the  night  by  the  ghost  of  his  mother.  The  wonderful  truthfulness 
wkh  which  this  story  is  depicted,  caused  while  reading  it,  a  shudder 
of  horror  in  all  my  veins.  Ghost  stories  invariably  thrill  us  with 
additional  horror  when  read  during  a  journey  and  by  night  in  a  town, 
in  a  house,  and  in  a  chamber  where  we  have  never  before  been.  We 
involuntarily  reflect,  "  How  many  horrors  may  have  been  perpetrated 
ou  this  very  spot  where  I  now  lie  ?"  Meanwhile,  the  moon  shone 
into  my  room  in  a  doubtful,  suspicious  manner ;  all  kinds  of  uncalled 
for  shapes  quivered  on  the  walls,  and  as  I  laid  me  down  and  glanced 
fearfully  around,  I  beheld — 

There  is  nothing  so  "  uncanny"  as  when  a  man  sees  his  own  face  by 
moonlight  in  a  mirror.  At  the  same  instant  there  struck  a  deep- 
booming,  yawning  bell,  and  that  so  slowly  and  wearily  that  I  firmly 
believed  that  it  had  been  full  twelve  hours  striking,  and  that  it  was 
now  time  to  begin  over  again.  Between  the  last  and  next  to  the  last 
tones,  there  struck  in  very  abruptly,  as  if  irritated  and  scolding, 
another  bell,  who  was  apparently  out  of  patience  with  the  slowness 
of  her  friend.  As  the  two  iron  tongues  were  silenced,  and  the  still- 
ness of  death  sank  over  the  whole  house,  I  suddenly  seemed  to  hear, 
in  the  corridor  before  my  chamber,  something  halting  and  waddling 
along,  like  the  unsteady  steps  of  a  man.  At  last  the  door  slowly 
opened,  and  there  entered  deliberately  the  late  departed  Doctor  Saul 
Ascher.  A  cold  fever  drizzled  through  marrow  and  vein — I  trem- 
bled like  an  ivy  leaf,  and  scarcely  dared  I  gaze  upon  the  ghost.  He 
appeared  as  usual,  with  the  same  transcendental  grey  long  coat,  the 
same  abstract  legs,  and  the  same  mathematical  face  ;  only  this  latter 
was  a  little  yellower  than  usual,  and  the  mouth,  which  formerly  de- 
scribed two  angles  of  22|  degrees,  was  pinched  together,  and  the 
circles  around  the  eyes  had  a  somewhat  greater  radius.  Tottering, 
and  supporting  himself  as  usual  upon  his  Malacca  cane,  he  approached 
me,  and  said,  in  his  usual  drawling  dialect,  but  in  a  friendly  manner : 


—   71  — 


"  Do  not  be  afraid,  nor  believe  that  I  am  a  ghost.  It  is  a  deception 
of  your  imagination,  if  you  believe  that  you  see  me  as  a  ghost. 
What  is  a  ghost  ?  Define  one.  Deduce  for  me  the  conditions  of  the 
possibility  of  a  ghost.  In  what  reasonable  connection  does  such  an 
apparition  coincide  with  reason  itself?  Reason,  I  say,  reason!"  Here 
the  ghost  proceeded  to  analyze  reason,  cited  from  Kant's  Critic  of  Pure 
Reason,  part  2,  1st  section,  chap.  3,  the  distinction  between  phe- 
nomena and  nouomena,  then  proceeded  to  construct  a  hypothetical 
system  of  ghosts,  piled  one  syllogism  on  another,  and  concluded  with 
the  logical  proof  that  there  are  absolutely  no  ghosts.  Meanwhile  the 
cold  sweat  beaded  over  me,  my  teeth  clattered  like  castanets,  and 
from  very  agony  of  soul  I  nodded  an  unconditional  assent  to  every 
assertion  which  the  phantom  Doctor  alleged  against  the  absurdity  of 
being  afraid  of  ghosts,  and  which  he  demonstrated  with  such  zeal, 
that  finally,  in  a  moment  of  abstraction,  instead  of  his  gold  watch, 
he  drew  a  handful  of  grave  worms  from  his  vest  pocket,  and  remark- 
ing his  error,  replaced  them  with  a  ridiculous  but  terrified  haste. 
"  The  reason  is  the  highest — "  Here  the  clock  struck  one,  and  the 
ghost  vanished. 

I  wandered  forth  from  Goslar  the  next  morning,  half  at  random, 
and  half  intending  to  visit  the  brother  of  the  Clausthaler  miner.  I 
climbed  hill  and  mount,  saw  how  the  sun  strove  to  drive  afar  the 
mists,  and  wandered  merrily  through  the  trembling  woods,  while 
around  my  dreaming  head  rang  the  bell  flowers  of  Goslar.  The 
mountains  stood  in  their  white  night-robes,  the  fir  trees  were  shaking 
sleep  out  of  their  branching  limbs,  the  fresh  morning  wind  curled 
their  down-drooping  green  locks,  the  birds  were  at  morning  prayers, 
the  meadow-vale  flashed  like  a  golden  surface  sprinked  with  diamonds, 
and  the  shepherd  passed  over  it  with  his  bleating  flock.  I  had  gone 
astray.  Men  are  ever  striking  out  short  cuts  and  bye-paths,  hoping 
to  abridge  their  journey.  It  is  in  life  as  in  the  Hartz.  However, 
there  are  good  souls  everywhere  to  bring  us  again  to  the  right  way. 
This  they  do  right  willingly,  appearing  to  take  a  particular  satisfac- 
tion, to  judge  from  their  self-gratified  air,  and  benevolent  tones, 
in  pointing  out  to  us  the  great  wanderings  which  we  have  made 
from  the  right  road,  the  abysses  and  morasses  into  which  we  might 
have  sunk,  and,  finally,  what  a  piece  of  good  luck  it  was  for  us  to 
encounter,  betimes,  people  who  knew  the  road  as  well  as  themselves. 
Such  a  guide-post  I  found  not  far  from  the  Hartzburg,  in  the  person 
of  a  well-fed  citizen  of  Goslar — a  man  of  shining,  double-chinned, 
slow-cunning  countenance,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  discovered  the 


—   72  — 


murrain.  We  went  along  for  some  distance  together,  and  he  narrated 
many  ghost  stories,  which  would  have  all  been  well  enough  if  they 
had  not  all  concluded  with  an  explanation  that  there  was  no  real 
ghost  in  the  case,  but  that  the  spectre  in  white  was  a  poacher,  that 
the  wailing  sound  was  caused  by  the  new-born  farrow  of  a  wild  sow, 
and  that  the  rapping  and  scraping  on  the  roof  was  caused  by  cats. 
"  Only  when  a  man  is  sick,"  observed  my  guide, "  does  he  ever  believe 
that  he  sees  ghosts  ;"  and  to  this  he  added  the  remark,  that  as  for  his 
own  humble  self,  he  was  but  seldom  sick, — only  at  times  a  little  wrong 
about  the  head,  and  that  he  invariably  relieved  this  by  dieting.  He 
then  called  my  attention  to  the  appropriateness  and  use  of  all  things 
in  nature.  Trees  are  green,  because  green  is  good  for  the  eyes.  I 
assented  to  this,  adding  that  the  Lord  had  made  cattle  because  beef- 
soup  strengthened  man,  that  jackasses  were  created  for  the  purpose 
of  serving  as  comparisons,  and  that  man  existed  that  he  might  eat 
beef-soup,  and  realize  that  he  was  no  jackass.  My  companion  was 
delighted  to  meet  with  one  of  sympathetic  views,  his  face  glowed  with 
a  greater  joy,  and  on  parting  from  me  he  appeared  to  be  sensibly 
moved. 

As  long  as  he  was  with  me  Nature  seemed  benumbed,  but  when 
he  departed  the  trees  began  again  to  speak,  the  sun-rays  flashed,  the 
meadow-flowers  danced  once  more,  and  the  blue  heavens  embraced  the 
green  earth.  Yes — I  know  better.  God  hath  created  man  that  he 
may  admire  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  the  world.  Every  author, 
be  he  ever  so  great,  desires  that  his  work  may  be  praised.  And  in 
the  Bible,  that  great  memoir  of  God,  it  is  distinctly  written  that  he 
hath  made  man  for  his  own  honour  and  praise. 

After  long  wandering,  here  and  there,  I  came  to  the  dwelling  of 
the  brother  of  my  Clausthaler  friend.  Here  I  staid  all  night,  and 
experienced  the  following  beautiful  poem : 

l. 

On  yon  rock  the  hut  is  standing, 

Of  the  ancient  mountaineer. 
There  the  dark  green  fir  trees  rustle, 

And  the  moon  is  shining  clear. 

In  the  hut  there  stands  an  arm-chair 

Which  quaint  carvings  beautify ; 
He  who  sits  therein  is  happy, 

And  that  happy  man  am  I. 


—   73  — 


On  the  footstool  sits  a  maiden, 
On  my  lap  her  arms  repose  : — 

With  her  eyes  like  blue  stars  beaming, 
And  her  mouth  a  new-born  rose. 

And  the  dear  blue  stars  shine  on  me, 
Full  as  heaven  is  their  gaze ; 

And  her  little  lily  finger 
Archly  on  the  rose  she  lays. 

11  Nay — thy  mother  cannot  see  us, 
For  she  spins  the  whole  day  long ; 

And  thy  father  plays  the  cithern 
As  he  sings  a  good  old  song." 

And  the  maiden  softly  whispers, 
So  that  none  around  may  hear  : 

Many  a  solemn  little  secret 
Hath  she  murmured  in  my  ear. 

Since  I  lost  my  aunt  who  loved  me, 

Now  we  never  more  repair 
To  the  shooting-ground  at  Goslar, 

And  it  is  so  pleasant  there  I 

And  up  here  it  is  so  lonely 

On  the  rocks  where  cold  winds  blow; 
And  in  winter,  we  are  ever 

Deeply  buried  in  the  snow. 

And  I'm  such  a  timid  creature, 
And  I'm  frightened  like  a  child ; 

At  the  evil  mountain  spirits, 
Who  by  night  are  raging  wild. 

At  the  thought  the  maid  was  silent, 
As  if  terror  thrilled  her  breast ; 

And  the  small  hands,  white  and  dimpled 
To  her  sweet  blue  eyes  she  pressed. 

Loud,  without,  the  fir  trees  rustle, 
Loud  the  spinning-wheel  still  rings  : 

And  the  cithern  sounds  above  them, 
While  the  father  softly  sings. 


—   74  — 


"  Dearest  child : — no  evil  spirits 
Should  have  power  to  cause  thee  dread ; 

For  good  angels  still  are  watching 
Night  and  day  around  thy  head." 


2- 

Fir-Tree  with  his  dark  green  fingers 
Taps  upon  the  window  low ; 

And  the  moon,  a  yellow  listener, 
Casts  within  her  sweetest  glow. 

Father,  mother,  both  are  sleeping, 
Near  at  hand  their  rest  they  take ; 

But  we  two,  in  pleasant  gossip, 
Keep  each  other  long  awake. 

"  That  thou  prayest  much  too  often, 
Seems  unlikely  T  declare ; 

On  thy  lips  there's  a  contraction 
"Which  was  never  born  of  prayer. 

Ah,  that  heartless,  cold  expression ! 

Terrifies  me  as  I  gaze ; 
Though  a  solemn  sorrow  darkens 

In  thine  eyes,  their  gentle  rajs. 

And  I  doubt  if  thou  believest 
What  is  held  for  truth  by  most ; 

Hast  thou  faith  in  God  the  Father 
In  the  Son  and  Holy  Ghost  ? 

•  Ah,  my  darling ;  when,  an  infant 
By  my  mother's  knee  I  stood, 
I  believed  in  God  the  Father, 
He  who  ruleth  great  and  good. 

He  who  made  the  world  so  lovely, 
Gave  man  beauty,  gave  him  force ; 

And  to  sun  and  moon  and  planets, 
Pre-appointed  each  their  course. 


—    75  — 


As  I  older  grew,  my  darling, 

And  my  way  in  wisdom  won ; 
I,  in  reason  comprehended, 

And  believe  now  in  the  Son. 

In  the  well-loved  Son,  who  loving, 
Oped  the  gates  of  Love  so  wide ; 

And  for  thanks, — as  is  the  custom,— 
By  the  world  was  crucified. 

Now,  at  man's  estate  arriving, 

Full  experience  I  boast ; 
And  with  heart  expanded,  truly 

I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Who  hath  worked  the  greatest  wonders, 
Greater  still  he'll  work  again  ; 

He  hath  broken  tyrant's  strong  holds 
And  he  breaks  the  vassal's  chain. 

Ancient  deadly  wounds  he  healeth, 
He  renews  man's  ancient  right ; 

All  to  him,  born  free  and  equal, 
Are  as  nobles  in  his  sight. 

Clouds  of  evil  flee  before  him, 
And  those  cobwebs  of  the  brain, 

Which  forbade  us  love  and  pleasure, 
Scowling  grimly  on  our  pain. 

And  a  thousand  knights  well  weaponed 
Hath  he  chosen,  and  required 

To  fulfil  his  holy  bidding, 

All  with  noblest  zeal  inspired. 

Lo  !  their  precious  swords  are  gleaming, 
And  their  banners  wave  in  fight ! 

What !  thou  fain  would'st  see,  my  darling, 
Such  a  proud  and  noble  knight  ? 

Well,  then  gaze  upon  me,  dearest, 

I  am  of  that  lordly  host. 
Kiss  me  !    I  am  an  elected 

True  knight  of  the  Holy  Ghost ! 


—   76  — 


3. 


Silently  the  moon  goes  hiding 

Down  behind  the  dark  green  trees  ; 

And  the  lamp  which  lights  our  chamber 
Flickers  in  the  evening  breeze. 

But  the  star-blue  eyes  are  beaming 
Softly  o'er  the  dimpled  cheeks, 

And  the  purple  rose  is  gleaming, 
While  the  gentle  maiden  speaks. 

Little  people — fairy  goblins — 
Steal  away  our  meat  and  bread  ; 

In  the  chest  it  lies  at  evening, 
In  the  morning  it  has  fled. 

From  our  milk,  the  little  people 
Steal  the  cream  and  all  the  best ; 

Then  they  leave  the  dish  uncovered, 
And  our  cat  drinks  up  the  rest. 

And  the  cat's  a  witch,  I'm  certain, 
For  by  night  when  storms  arise ; 

Oft  she  glides  to  yonder  "  Ghost-Hock," 
Where  the  fallen  tower  lies. 

There  was  once  a  splendid  castle, 
Home  of  joy  and  weapon's  bright ; 

Where  there  swept  in  stately  torch  dance, 
Lady,  page,  and  armed  knight. 

But  a  sorceress  charmed  the  castle, 
With  its  lords  and  ladies  fair  ; 

Now  it  is  a  lonely  ruin, 

And  the  owls  are  nestling  there. 

But  my  aunt  hath  often  told  me, 
Could  I  speak  the  proper  word, 

In  the  proper  place  up  yonder, 
When  the  proper  hour  occurred. 


—   77  — 


Then  the  walls  would  change  by  magic 

To  a  castle  gleaming  bright ; 
And  I'd  see  in  stately  dances, 

Dame  and  page  and  gallant  knight. 

He  who  speaks  the  word  of  power 

Wins  the  castle  for  his  own  ; 
And  the  knights  with  drum  and  trumpet, 

Loud  will  hail  him  lord  alone. 

Thus,  sweet  legendary  pictures 
From  the  little  rose-mouth  bloom  ; 

And  the  gentle  eyes  are  shedding 
Star-blue  lustre  through  the  gloom. 

Round  my  hand  the  little  maiden 
Winds  her  gold  locks  as  she  will, 

Gives  a  name  to  every  finger, 
Kisses, — smiles,  and  then  is  still. 

All  things  in  the  silent  chamber 

Seem  at  once  familiar  grown, 
As  if  e'en  the  chairs  and  clothes-press, 

Well,  of  old,  to  me  were  known. 

Now  the  clock  talks  kindly,  gravely, 
And  the  cithern,  as  t'would  seem, 

Of  itself  is  faintly  chiming, 
And  I  sit  as  in  a  dream. 

Now  the  proper  hour  is  o'er  us, 

Here's  the  place  where't  should  be  heard ; 
Child — how  thou  would'st  be  astonished, 

Should  I  speak  the  magic  word  ! 

If  I  spoke  that  word,  then  fading 
Night  would  thrill  in  fearful  strife  ; 

Trees  and  streams  would  roar  together 
As  the  castle  woke  to  life. 

Ringing  lutes  and  goblin  ditties 

From  the  clefted  rock  would  sound ; 

Like  a  mad  and  merry  spring-tide 
Flowers  grow  forest-high  around. 

7* 


—   78  — 


Flowers — startling,  wondrous  flowers, 
Leaves  of  vast  and  fabled  form, 

Strangely  perfumed, — wildly  quivering, 
As  if  thrilled  with  passion's  storm. 

Eoses,  wild  as  crimson  flashes, 

O'er  the  busy  tumult  rise  ; 
Giant  lilies,  white  as  crystal, 

Shoot  like  columns  to  the  skies. 

Great  as  suns  the  stars  above  us 
Gaze  adown  with  burning  glow ; 

In  the  lilies^  giant  calyx 

All  their  floods  of  flashes  flow. 

We  ourselves,  my  little  maiden, 
Would  be  changed  more  than  all ; 

Torchlight  gleams,  o'er  gold  and  satin 
Bound  us  merrily  would  fall. 

Thou  thyself  would'st  be  the  princess, 
And  this  hut  thy  castle  high ; 

Ladies,  lords,  and  graceful  pages, 
Would  be  dancing,  singing  by. 

I,  however,  I  have  conquered 

Thee,  and  all  things,  with  the  word  : — 
Serfs  and  castle  : — lo  !  with  trumpet 

Loud  they  hail  me  as  their  lord ! 


The  sun  rose.  Clouds  flitted  away  like  phantoms  at  the  third 
crow  of  the  cock.  Again  I  wandered  up  hill  and  down  dale,  while 
over  head  swept  the  fair  sun,  ever  lighting  up  new  scenes  of  beauty. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Mountain  evidently  favoured  me,  well  knowing  that 
a  "  poetical  character"  has  it  in  his  power  to  say  many  a  fine  thing 
of  him,  and  on  this  morning  he  let  me  see  his  Hartz,  as  it  is  not, 
most  assuredly,  seen  by  every  one.  But  the  Hartz  also  saw  me  as  I 
am  seen  by  few,  and  there  were  as  costly  pearls  on  my  eye-lashes,  as 
on  the  grass  of  the  valley.  The  morning-dew  of  love  wetted  my 
cheeks,  the  rustling  pines  understood  me,  their  parting  twigs  waved 
up  and  down,  as  if,  like  mute  mortals,  they  would  express  their  joy 
with  gestures  of  their  hands,  and  from  afar,  I  heard  beautiful  and 




—   79  — 


mysterious  chimes,  like  the  bell-tones  of  some  long  lost  forest  church. 
People  say  that  these  sounds  are  caused  by  the  cattle-bells,  which  in 
the  Hartz,  ring  with  remarkable  clearness  and  purity. 

It  was  noon,  according  to  the  position  of  the  sun,  as  I  chanced 
upon  such  a  flock ;  and  its  herd,  a  friendly,  light-haired  young  fellow, 
told  me  that  the  great  hill  at  whose  base  I  stood,  was  the  old  world- 
renowned  Brocken.  For  many  leagues  around,  there  is  no  house,  and 
I  was  glad  enough,  when  the  young  man  invited  me  to  share  his  meal. 
"We  sat  down  to  a  dejeuner  dinatoire,  consisting  of  bread  and  cheese. 
The  sheep  snatched  up  our  crumbs,  while  pretty  shining  heifers  jumped 
around,  ringing  their  bells  roguishly,  and  laughing  at  us  with  great 
merry  eyes.  We  made  a  royal  meal ;  my  host  appearing  to  me  alto- 
gether a  king,  and  as  he  is  the  only  monarch  who  has  ever  given  me 
bread,  I  will  sing  him  right  royally. 

The  shepherd  is  a  monarch, 

A  hillock  is  his  throne, 
The  sun  above  him  shining, 

Is  his  heavy  golden  crown. 

Sheep  at  his  feet  are  lying, 

Soft  flatterers,  crossed  with  red, 
The  calves  are  "  cavalieros," 

Who  strut  with  haughty  head. 

Court-players  are  the  he-goats, 

And  the  wild-bird  and  the  cow, 
With  their  piping  and  their  herd-bell, 

Are  the  king's  musicians  now. 

They  ring  and  sing  so  sweetly, 

And  so  sweetly  chime  around, 
The  water-fall  and  fir-trees, 

While  the  monarch  slumbers  sound. 

And  as  he  sleeps,  his  sheep-dog, 

As  minister  must  reign  ; 
His  snarling  and  his  barking, 

Re-echo  o'er  the  plain. 

Dozing,  the  monarch  murmurs 

"  Such  work  was  never  seen 
As  reigning — I  were  happier 

At  home  beside  my  Queen! 


—   80  — 


"  My  royal  head  when  weary, 

In  my  Queen's  arms  softly  lies, 
And  my  endless  broad  dominion, 
In  her  deep  and  gentle  eyes." 

We  took  leave  of  each  other  in  a  friendly  manner,  and  with  a  light 
heart  I  began  to  ascend  the  mountain.  I  was  soon  welcomed  by  a  grove 
of  stately  firs,  for  whom  I,  in  every  respect,  entertain  the  most  reveren- 
tial regard.  For  these  trees,  of  which  T  speak,  have  not  found  growing 
to  be  such  an  easy  business,  and  during  the  days  of  their  youth  it 
fared  hard  with  them.  The  mountain  is  here  sprinkled  with  a  great 
number  of  blocks  of  granite,  and  most  of  the  trees  are  obliged  either 
to  twine  their  roots  over  the  stones,  or  split  them  in  two,  that  they 
may  thus  with  trouble  get  at  a  little  earth  to  nourish  them.  Here 
and  there  stones  lie,  on  each  other,  forming  as  it  were  a  gate,  and 
over  all  grow  the  trees,  their  naked  roots  twining  down  over  the  wild 
portals,  and  first  reaching  the  ground  at  its  base,  so  that  they  appear 
to  be  growing  in  the  air.  And  yet  they  have  forced  their  way  up  to 
that  startling  height,  and  grown  into  one  with  the  rocks,  they  stand 
more  securely  than  their  easy  comrades,  who  are  rooted  in  the  tame 
forest  soil  of  the  level  country.  So  it  is  in  life  with  those  great  men 
who  have  strengthened  and  established  themselves  by  resolutely  sub- 
duing the  obstacles  which  oppressed  their  youth.  Squirrels  climbed 
amid  the  fir-twigs,  while  beneath,  yellow-brown  deer  were  quietly 
grazing.  I  cannot  comprehend,  when  I  see  such  a  noble  animal,  how 
educated  and  refined  people  can  take  pleasure  in  its  chase  or  death. 
Such  a  creature  was  once  more  merciful  than  man,  and  suckled  the 
longing  "Schmerzenreich"  of  the  Holy  Genofeva.* 

Most  beautiful  were  the  golden  sun-rays  shooting  through  the 
dark  green  of  the  firs.  The  roots  of  the  trees  formed  a  natural  stair- 
way, and  everywhere  my  feet  encountered  swelling  beds  of  moss,  for 
the  stones  are  here  covered  foot-deep,  as  if  with  light-green  velvet 
cushions.  Everywhere  a  pleasant  freshness  and  the  dreamy  murmur 
of  streams.  Here  and  there  we  see  water  rippling  silver-clear  amid 
the  rocks,  washing  the  bare  roots  and  fibres  of  trees.  Bend  down  to 
the  current  and  listen,  and  you  may  hear  at  the  same  time  the  mys- 
terious history  of  the  growth  of  the  plants,  aud  the  quiet  pulsations 


According  to  the  Legend  of  Genofeva,  (chap,  v.)  when  the  fair  saint  and  her  little  son, 
Schmkrzenreich,  (abounding  in  sorrows,)  were  starving  in  the  wilderness,  they  were 
suckled  by  a  doe.— \Notc  by  Translator.} 


—   81  — 


of  the  heart  of  the  mountain.  In  many  places,  the  water  jets  strongly 
up,  amid  rocks  and  roots,  forming  little  cascades.  It  is  pleasant  to 
sit  in  such  places.  All  murmurs  and  rustles  so  sweetly  and  strangely, 
the  birds  carol  broken  strains  of  love-longing,  the  trees  whisper  like 
a  thousand  girls,  odd  flowers  peep  up  like  a  thousand  maidens'  eyes, 
stretching  out  to  us  their  curious,  broad,  droll-pointed  leaves,  the  sun- 
rays  flash  here  and  there  in  sport,  the  soft-souled  herds  are  telling  their 
green  legends,  all  seems  enchanted,  and  becomes  more  secret  and 
confidential,  an  old,  old  dream  is  realized,  the  loved  one  appears, — 
alas  that  all  so  quickly  vanishes  ! 

The  higher  we  ascend,  so  much  the  shorter  and  more  dwarf-like  do 
the  fir-trees  become,  shrinking  up  as  it  were  within  themselves,  until 
finally  only  whortle-berries,  bilberries,  and  mountain  herbs  remain. 
It  is  also  sensibly  colder.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  the  granite 
boulders,  which  are  frequently  of  enormous  size,  become  fully  visible. 
These  may  well  have  been  the  play-balls  which  evil  spirits  cast  at  each 
other  on  the  Walpurgis  night,  when  the  witches  came  riding  hither 
on  brooms  and  pitch-forks,  when  the  mad  unhallowed  revelry  begins, 
as  our  believing  nurses  have  told  us,  and  as  we  may  see  it  represented 
in  the  beautiful  Faust-pictures  of  Master  Retsch.  Yes,  a  young  poet 
who  in  journeying  from  Berlin  to  Güttingen,  on  the  first  evening  in 
May,  passed  the  Brocken,  remarked  how  certain  belles-lettered  ladies 
held  their  aesthetic  tea-circle  in  a  rocky  corner,  how  they  comfortably 
read  the  Evening  Journal,  how  they  praised  as  an  universal  genius, 
their  pet  billy-goat,  who  bleating,  hopped  around  their  table,  and  how 
they  passed  a  final  judgment  on  all  the  manifestations  of  German 
literature.  But  when  they  at  last  fell  upon  "  Ratcliff,"  and  "  Alman- 
sor,"  utterly  denying  to  the  author,  aught  like  piety  or  Christianity, 
the  hair  of  the  youth  rose  on  end,  terror  seized  him — I  spurred  my 
steed  and  rode  onwards  ! 

In  fact,  when  we  ascend  the  upper  half  of  the  Brocken,  no  one 
can  well  help  thinking  of  the  attractive  legends  of  the  Blocksberg, 
and  especially  of  the  great  mystical  German  national  tragedy  of  Doc- 
tor Faust.  It  ever  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  hear  the  cloven  foot 
scrambling  along  behind,  and  that  some  one  inhaled  an  atmosphere 
of  humor.  And  I  verily  believe  that  "  Mephisto"  himself  must 
breathe  with  difficulty  when  he  climbs  his  favorite  mountain,  for  it  is 
a  road  which  is  to  the  last  degree  exhausting,  and  1  was  glad  enough 
when  I  at  last  beheld  the  long  desired  Brocken-house. 

This  house— as  every  one  knows,  from  numerous  pictures — consists 
of  a  single  story,  and  was  erected  in  the  year  1800  by  Count  Stoll- 

9 


_  

—    82  — 

berg  "Wernigerode,  for  whose  profit  it  is  managed  as  a  tavern.  On 
account  of  the  wind  and  cold  in  winter,  its  walls  are  incredibly  thick, 
The  roof  is  low.  From  its  midst  rises  a  tower-like  observatory,  and 
near  the  house  lie  two  little  out-buildings,  one  of  which,  in  earlier 
times,  served  as  shelter  to  the  Brocken  visitors. 

On  entering  the  Brocken-house,  I  experienced  a  somewhat  unusual 
and  legend-like  sensation.  After  a  long  solitary  journey,  amid  rocks 
and  pines,  the  traveller  suddenly  finds  himself  in  a  house  amid  the 
clouds.  Far  below  lie  cities,  hills  and  forests,  while  above  he  en- 
counters a  curiously  blended  circle  of  strangers,  by  whom  he  is 
received  as  is  usual  in  such  assemblies,  almost  like  an  expected 
companion — half  inquisitively  and  half  indifferently.  I  found  the 
house  full  of  guests,  and,  as  becomes  a  wise  man,  I  first  reflected 
on  the  night,  and  the  discomfort  of  sleeping  on  straw.  My  part 
was  at  once  determined  on.  With  the  voice  of  one  dying  I 
called  for  tea,  and  the  Brocken  landlord  was  reasonable  enough 
to  perceive  that  the  sick  gentleman  must  be  provided  with  a  decent 
bed.  This  he  gave  me,  in  a  narrow  room,  where  a  young  merchant 
— a  long  emetic  in  a  brown  overcoat — had  already  established 
himself. 

In  the  public  room  I  found  a  full  tide  of  bustle  and  animation. 
There  were  students  from  different  Universities.  Some  of  the  newly 
arrived  were  taking  refreshments.  Others,  preparing  for  departure, 
buckled  on  their  knapsacks,  wrote  their  names  in  the  album,  and 
received  bouquets  from  the  housemaid.  There  was  jesting,  singing, 
springing,  trilling,  some  questioning,  some  answering,  fine  weather, 
foot  path,  prosit! — luck  be  with  you!  Adieu!  Some  of  those  leav- 
ing were  also  partly  drunk,  and  these  derived  a  two-fold  pleasure  from 
the  beautiful  scenery,  for  a  tipsy  man  sees  double. 

After  recruiting  myself,  I  ascended  the  observatory,  and  there 
found  a  little  gentleman,  with  two  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  young 
and  the  other  elderly.  The  young  lady  was  very  beautiful.  A 
superb  figure,  flowing  locks,  surmounted  by  a  helm-like  black  satin 
chapeau,  amid  whose  white  plumes  the  wind  played ;  fine  limbs,  so 
closely  enwrapped  by  a  black  silk  mantle  that  their  exquisite  form 
was  made  manifest,  and  great  free  eyes,  calmly  looking  down  into  the 
great  free  world. 

When  as  yet  a  boy  I  thought  of  naught  save  tales  of  magic  and 
wonder,  and  every  fair  lady  who  had  ostrich  feathers  on  her  head  I 
tegarded  as  an  Elfin  Queen.     If  I  observed  that  the  train  of  her 


—    83  — 


dress  was  wet,  I  believed  at  once  that  she  must  be  a  water  fairy."* 
Now,  I  know  better,  having  learned  from  Natural  History  that  those 
symbolical  feathers  are  found  on  the  most  stupid  of  birds,  and  that 
the  skirt  of  a  lady's  dress,  may  be  wetted  in  a  Very  natural  way. 
But  if  I  had,  with  those  boyish  eyes,  seen  the  aforesaid  young  lady, 
in  the  aforesaid  position  on  the  Brocken,  I  would  most  assuredly 
have  thought  "  That  is  the  fairy  of  the  mountain  and  she  has  just 
uttered  the  charm  which  has  caused  all  down  there  to  appear  so 
wonderful."  Yes,  at  the  first  glance  from  the  Brocken,  everything 
appears  in  a  high  degree  marvellous, — new  impressions  throng  in  on 
every  side,  and  these,  varied  and  often  contradictory,  unite  in  our 
soul  to  an  overpowering  and  confusing  sensation.  If  we  suceeed  in 
grasping  the  idea  of  this  sensation,  we  shall  comprehend  the  character 
of  the  mountain.  This  character  is  entirely  German  as  regards  not 
only  its  advantages,  but  also  its  defects.  The  Brocken  is  a  German. 
With  German  thoroughness  he  points  out  to  us, — sharply  and  accu- 
rately defined  as  in  a  panorama, — the  hundreds  of  cities,  towns  and 
villages  which  are  principally  situated  to  the  north,  and  all  the 
mountains,  forests,  rivers  and  plains  which  lie  infinitely  far  around. 
But  for  this  very  cause  everything  appears  like  an  accurately  designed 
and  perfectly  coloured  map,  and  nowhere  is  the  eye  gratified  by  really 
beautiful  landscapes, — just  as  we  German  compilers,  owing  to  the 
honourable  exactness  with  which  we  attempt  to  give  all  and  every- 
thing, never  appear  to  think  of  giving  integral  parts  in  a  beautiful 
manner.  The  mountain  in  consequence  has  a  certain  calm-German, 
intelligent,  tolerant  character,  simply  because  he  can  see  things  so 
distant,  yet  so  distinctly.  And  when  such  a  mountain  opens  his 
giant  eyes,  it  may  be  that  he  sees  somewhat  more  than  we  dwarfs, 
who  with  our  weak  eyes  climb  over  him.  Many,  indeed,  assert  that 
the  Blocksberg  is  very  Philistine-like,  and  Claudius  once  sang  "The 
Blocksberg  is  the  lengthy  Sir  Philistine."  But  that  was  an  error. 
On  account  of  his  bald  head,  which  he  occasionally  covers  with  a 
cloud  cap,  the  Blocksberg  has  indeed  something  of  a  Philistine-like 
aspect, f  but  this  with  him,  as  with  many  other  great  Germans,  is  the 


*  It  is  an  accepted  tradition  in  Fairy  mythology  that  Undines,  Water  Nixies  and  other 
aqueous  spirits,  however  they  may  disguise  themselves,  can  always  be  detected  by  the 
fact  that  a  portion  of  their  dress  invariably  appears  to  be  wet. — [Note  by  Translator.] 

f  Phüistrose. — "  IJhilistine-like,"  i.  e.  Old  fogyisb,  vulgar,  non-student  like,  citizen-isb, 
snobbish,  bourgeois,  slow.  The  term  is  generally  applied  by  wild  students  to  those  "  out- 
siders" who  lead  a  settled  down  life  in  the  world.   "  A  Philistine,"  says  Arndt,  is  a  lazy, 


—    84  — 


result  of  pure  irony.  For  it  is  notorious  that  be  lias  Iiis  wild-student 
and  fantastic  times,  as  for  instance,  on  the  first  night  of  May.  Then 
he  casts  his  cloud-cap  uproariously  and  merrily  on  high,  and 
becomes  like  the  rest  of  us,  real  German  romantic  mad. 

I  soon  sought  to  entrap  the  beauty  into  a  conversation,  for  we 
only  begin  to  fully  enjoy  the  beauties  of  nature  when  we  talk  about 
them  on  the  spot.  She  was  not  spirituelle,  but  attentively  intelligent. 
Both  were  perfect  models  of  gentility.  I  do  not  mean  that  common- 
place, stiff,  negative  respectability,  which  knows  exactly  what  must  not 
be  done  or  said,  but  that  rarer,  independent,  positive  gentility,  which 
inspires  an  accurate  knowledge  of  what  we  may  venture  on,  and  which 
amid  all  our  ease  and  abandon  inspires  the  utmost  social  confidence 
I  developed  to  my  own  amazement  much  geographical  knowledge, 
detailed  to  the  curious  beauty  the  names  of  all  the  towns  which 
lay  before  us,  and  sought  them  out  for  her  on  the  map,  which  with 
all  the  solemnity  of  a  teacher  I  had  spread  out  on  the  stone  table 
which  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  tower.  I  could  not  find  many  of 
the  towns,  possibly  because  I  sought  them  more  with  my  fingers  than 
with  my  eyes,  which  latter  were  scanning  the  face  of  the  fair  lady,  and 
discovering  in  it  fairer  regious  than  those  of  "  Schierke"  and  "  Elend."* 
This  countenance  was  one  of  those  which  never  excite,  and  seldom 
enrapture,  but  which  always  please.  I  love  such  faces,  for  they  smile 
my  evilly  agitated  heart  to  rest. 

I  could  not  divine  the  relation  in  which  the  little  gentleman  stood 
to  the  ladies  whom  he  accompanied.  He  was  a  spare  and  remarkable 
figure.  A  head  sprinkled  with  gray  hair,  which  fell  over  his  low 
forehead  down  to  his  dragon-fly  eyes,  and  a  round,  broad  nose  which 
projected  boldly  forwards,  while  his  mouth  and  chin  seemed 
retreating  in  terror  back  to  his  ears.  His  face  looked  as  if  formed 
of  the  soft  yellowish  clay  with  which  sculptors  mould  their  first 
models,  and  when  the  thin  lips  pinched  together,  thousands  of  semi- 
circular and  faint  wrinkles  appeared  on  his  cheeks.  The  little  man 
never  spoke  a  word,  only  at  times  when  the  elder  lady  whispered 


mm  h-speaking.  more-asking,  nothing-daring  man;  such  acme  who  makes  the  small  great 
und  the  great  small,  because  in  the  great  he  feels  his  littleness  and  insignificance.  Great 
passions,  great  enjoyments.  gTeat  dangers,  great  virtues, — all  these  the  Philistine  styles 
nonsense  and  frenzy." — [Note  by  Translator.] 

*  Schierle  (Scfiurke),  "  rascal.'"  and  Elend  or  "misery,"  are  the  names  of  two  places 
near  the  Brocken. 


—    85  — 

something  friendly  in  his  ear,  he  smiled  like  a  lap  dog  which  has 
taken  cold. 

The  elder  lady  was  the  mother  of  the  younger,  and  she  too  was 
gifted  with  an  air  of  extreme  respectability  and  refinement.  Her 
eyes  betrayed  a  sickly,  dreamy  depth  of  thought,  and  about  her  mouth 
there  was  an  expression  of  confirmed  piety,  yet  withal,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  she  had  once  been  very  beautiful,  and  often  smiled,  and 
taken  and  given  many  a  kiss.  Her  countenance  resembled  a  codex 
palimpseshts,  in  which,  from  beneath  the  recent  black  monkish 
writing  of  some  text  of  a  Church  Father,  there  peeped  out  the  half 
obliterated  verse  of  an  old  Greek  love-poet.  Both  ladies  had  been 
that  year  with  their  companion,  in  Italy,  and  told  me  many  things  of 
the  beauties  of  Eome,  Florence,  and  Yenice.  The  mother  had  much 
to  say  of  the  pictures  of  Raphael  in  St.  Peter's ;  the  daughter  spoke 
more  of  the  opera  in  La  Fenice. 

While  we  conversed,  the  sun  sank  lower  and  lower,  the  air  grew 
colder,  twilight  stole  over  us,  and  the  tower  platform  was  filled  with 
students,  travelling  mechanics,  and  a  few  honest  citizens  with  their 
spouses  and  daughters,  all  of  whom  were  desirous  of  witnessing  the 
sun-set.  That  is  truly  a  sublime  spectacle  which  elevates  the  soul 
to  prayer.  For  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour  all  stood  in  solemn  silence, 
gazing  on  the  beautiful  fire-ball  as  it  sank  in  the  west ;  faces  were 
rosy  in  the  evening  red  ;  hands  were  involuntarily  folded  ;  it  seemed 
as  if  we,  a  silent  congregation,  stood  in  the  nave  of  a  giant  church, 
that  the  priest  raised  the  body  of  the  Lord,  and  that  Palestrina  s 
everlasting  choral  song  poured  forth  from  the  organ. 

As  I  stood  thus  lost  in  piety,  I  heard  some  one  near  me  exclaim, 
"  Ah!  how  beautiful  Nature  is,  as  a  general  thing!"  These  words 
came  from  the  full  heart  of  my  room-mate,  the  young  shopman. 
This  brought  me  back  to  my  week  day  state  of  mind,  and  I  found 
myself  in  tune  to  say  a  few  neat  things  to  the  ladies,  about  the  sun- 
set, and  to  accompany  them,  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
to  their  room.  They  permitted  me  to  converse  an  hour  longer  with 
them.  Our  conversation,  like  the  earth's  course,  was  about  the  sun. 
The  mother  declared-,  that  the  sun  as  it  sunk  in  the  snowy  clouds,  seemed 
like  a  red  glowing  rose,  which  the  gallant  heaven  had  thrown  upon 
the  white  and  spreading  bridal-veil  of  Iiis  loved  earth.  The  daughter 
smiled,  and  thought  that  a  frequent  observation  of  stich  phenomena 
weakened  their  impression.  The  mother  corrected  this  error  by  a 
quotation  from  Goethe's  Letters  of  Travel,  and  asked  me  if  had  I  read 
"  Werther."  T  believe  that  we  also  spoke  of  Angora  cats,  Etruscan 
I  8 

I  *  


■«   86  — 


vases,  Turkish  shawls,  maccaroni  anil  Lord  Byron,  from  whose 
poems,  the  elder  lady,  while  daintily  lisping  and  sighing,  recited 
several  sun-set  quotations.  To  the  younger  lady,  who  did  not  under- 
stand Euglish,  and  who  wished  to  become  familiar  with  those  poems, 
I  recommended  the  translation  of  my  fair  and  gifted  countrywoman, 
the  Baroness  Elise  von  Hohenhausen.  On  this  occasion,  as  is  my 
custom  when  talking  with  young  ladies,  I  did  not  neglect  to  speak 
of  Byron's  impiety,  heartlessness,  cheerlessness,  and  heaven  knows 
what  beside. 

After  this  business  I  took  a  walk  on  the  Brocken,  for  there  it  is 
never  quite  dark.  The  mist  was  not  heavy,  and  I  could  see  the  out- 
lines of  the  two  hills  known  as  the  Witch's  Altar  and  the  Devil's 
Pulpit.  I  fired  my  pistol,  but  there  was  no  echo.  But  suddenly  I 
heard  familiar  voices,  and  found  myself  embraced  and  kissed.  The 
new  comers  were  fellow-students,  from  my  own  part  of  Germany,  and 
had  left  Göttingen  four  days  later  than  I.  Great  was  their  astonish- 
ment at  finding  me  alone  on  the  Blocksberg.  Then  came  a  flood 
tide  of  narrative,  of  astonishment,  and  of  appointment  making — of 
laughing  and  of  recollection — and  in  the  spirit  we  found  ourselves 
again  in  our  learned  Siberia,  where  refinement  is  carried  to  such  an 
extent  that  bears  are  "  bound  by  many  ties"  in  the  taverns,  and  sables 
wish  the  hunter  good  evening.* 

In  the  great  room  we  had  supper.  There  was  a  long  table,  with 
two  rows  of  hungry  students.  At  first  we  had  only  the  usual  subject 
of  University  conversation — duels,  duels,  and  once  again  duels.  The 
company  consisted  principally  of  Halle  students,  and  Halle  formed 
in  consequence  the  nucleus  of  their  discourse.  The  window  panes  of 
Court-Counsellor  Schutz  were  exegetically  lighted  up.  Then  it  was 
mentioned  that  the  King  of  Cyprus's  last  levee  had  been  very  bril- 
liant, that  the  monarch  had  appointed  a  natural  son,  that  he  had 
married — over  the  left — a  princess  of  the  house  of  Lishtenstein,  that 


*  Acoordiug  to  that  dignified  and  erudite  work,  the  Burschikoses  Wörterbuch,  or  Student- 
Slang  Dictionary,  "  to  bind  a  bear,"  signifies  to  contract  a  debt.  The  term  is  most  fre- 
quently applied  to  tavern  scores.  In  "the  Landlord's  Twelve  Commandments,"  a  sheet 
frequently  pasted  up  in  German  beer-houses,  I  have  observed — "  Thou  shalt  not  bind  any 
bears  in  this  my  house."'  The  definition  of  a  sable  (Zobel),  asgiveu  in  the  Dictionary  above 
cited,  are :  1,  a  finely  furred  animal;  2,  a  young  lady  anxious  to  please;  3.  a  "  broom,'' 
(i.e.  housemaid,  or  female  in  general);  4.  a  lady  of  pleasure;  5,  a  wench;  6,  a  nymph 
of  the  pave;  7,  a  "buckle,"  Ac,  &c.  The  sable  hunt  is  synonymous  with  the  Besenjagd 
or  "  broom  chase."  I  have  however  heard  it  asserted  in  Heidelberg,  that  the  term  sablt 
•was  strictly  applicable  only  to  ladies'  maids. 


—   87  — 


the  State-mistress  had  been  forced  to  resign,  and  that  the  entire  min- 
istry, greatly  moved,  had  wept  according  to  rule.  I  need  hardly 
explain  that  this  all  referred  to  certain  beer-dignitaries  in  Halle. 
Then  the  two  Chinese,  who  two  years  before  had  been  exhibited  in 
Berlin,  and  who  were  now  appointed  professors  of  Chinese  aesthetics 
in  Halle,  were  discussed.  Some  one  supposed  a  case  in  which  a  live 
German  might  be  exhibited  for  money  in  China.  Placards  would  be 
pasted  up,  in  which  the  Mandarins  Tsching-Tscliang-Txcliung  and 
Hi-Ha-Ho  certified  that  the  man  was  a  genuine  Teuton,  including  a, 
list  of  his  accomplishments,  which  consisted  principally  of  philoso- 
phizing, smoking,  and  endless  patience.  As  a  finale,  visitors  might 
be  prohibited  from  bringing  any  dogs  with  them  at  twelve  o'clock 
(the  hour  for  feeding  the  captive),  as  these  animals  would  be  sure  to 
snap  from  the  poor  German  all  his  tit-bits. 

A  young  Burschenschafter,  who  had  recently  passed  his  period  of 
purification  in  Berlin,  spoke  much,  but  very  partially  of  this  city. 
He  had  been  constant  in  his  attendance  on  Wisotzki  and  the  Theatre 
but  judged  falsely  of  both.  "  For  youth  is  ever  ready  with  a  word 
&c."  He  spoke  of  wardrobe  expenditures,  theatrical  scandal,  and 
similar  matters.  The  youth  knew  not  that  in  Berlin  where  outside 
show  exerts  the  greatest  influence,  (as  is  abundantly  evidenced  by  the 
commonness  of  the  phrase  "  so  people  do,")  this  apparent  life  must- 
first  of  all,  flourish  on  the  stage,  and  consequently  that  the  especial 
care  of  the  Direction  must  be  for  "  the  colour  of  the  beard  with  which 
a  part  is  played,"  and  for  the  truthfulness  of  the  dresses,  which  are 
designed  by  sworn  historians,  and  sewed  by  scientifically  instructed 
tailors.  And  this  is  indispensable.  For  if  Maria  Stuart,  wore  an 
apron  belonging  to  the  time  of  Queen  Anne,  the  Banker,  Christian 
Gum  pel  would,  with  justice  complain  that  the  anachronism  destroyed 
the  illusion,  and  if  Lord  Burleigh  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness 
should  don  the  hose  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  then  Madam,  the  war- 
counsellor  von  Steinzopf's  wife,  nee  Lilienthau,  would  not  get  the 
error  out  of  her  head  for  the  whole  evening.  And  this  delusive  care 
on  the  part  of  the  general  direction  extends  itself  not  only  to  aprons 
and  pantaloons,  but  also  to  the  within  enclosed  persons.  So  in  future, 
Othello  will  be  played  by  a  real  Moor,  for  whom  professor  Lichten- 
stein has  already  written  to  Africa,  the  misanthropy  and  remorse  of 
Eulalia  are  to  be  sustained  by  a  lady  who  has  really  wandered  from 
the  paths  of  virtue,  Peter  will  be  played  by  a  real  blockhead,  and  the 
Stranger  by  a  genuine  mysterious  wittol — for  which  last  three  cha- 
racters it  will  not  be  necessary  to  send  to  Africa.    But  little  as  this 


—    88  — 


young  man  had  comprehended  the  relations  of  the  Berlin  drama,  still 
less  was  he  aware  that  the  Spontini  Jannissary  opera  with  its  kettle- 
drums, elephants,  trumpets,  and  gongs  is  a  heroic  means  of  inspiring 
with  valour  our  sleeping  race, — a  means  once  shrewdly  recommended 
by  Plato  and  Cicero.  Least  of  all  did  the  youth  comprehend  the  diplo- 
matic inner-meaning  of  the  ballet.  It  was  with  great  trouble  that  I 
fi  nally  made  him  understand  that  there  was  really  more  political  science 
in  Hogcet's  feet  than  in  Buckholtz's  head,  that  all  his  tours  de  danse 
signified  diplomatic  negotiations,  and  that  his  every  movement  hinted 
at  state  matters,  as  for  instance,  when  he  bent  forward  anxiously, 
widely  grasping  out  with  his  hands,  he  meant  our  Cabinet,  that  a 
hundred  pirouettes  on  one  toe  without  quitting  the  spot,  alluded  to 
the  alliance  of  Deputies,  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  lesser  princes 
when  he  tripped  around  with  his  legs  tied,  that  he  described  the  Euro- 
pean balance  of  power  when  he  tottered  hither  and  thither  like  a 
drunken  man,  that  he  hinted  at  a  Congress  when  he  twisted  his  bended 
arms  together  like  a  skein,  and  finally  that  he  sets  forth  our  altogether 
too  great  friend  in  the  East,  when  very  gradually  unfolding  himself, 
he  rises  on  high,  stands  for  a  long  time  in  this  elevated  position,  and 
then  all  at  once  breaks  out  into  the  most  terrifying  leaps.  The 
scales  fell  from  the  eyes  of  the  young  man,  and  he  now  saw  how  it 
was  that  dancers  are  better  paid  than  great  poets,  why  the  ballet 
forms  in  diplomatic  circles  an  inexhaustible  subject  of  conversation, 
and  why  a  beautiful  danseuse  is  so  frequently  privately  supported  by 
a  minister,  who  beyond  doubt  labors  night  and  day  that  she  may 
obtain  a  correct  idea  of  his  '  little  system.'  By  Apis  !  how  great  is 
the  number  of  the  exoteric,  and  how  small  the  array  of  the  esoteric 
frequenters  of  the  theatre !  There  sit  the  stupid  audience,  gaping 
and  admiring  leaps  and  attitudes,  studying  anatomy  in  the  positions 
of  Lemiere  and  applauding  the  entre-chats  of  Röhnisch,  prattling  of 
"grace,"  "harmony,"  and  "limbs," — no  one  remarking,  meanwhile, 
that  he  has  before  him  in  choregraphic  ciphers,  the  destiny  of  the 
German  Father-land. 

While  such  observations  flitted  hither  and  thither,  we  did  not  lose 
sight  of  the  practical,  and  the  great  dishes  which  were  honourably 
piled  up  with  meat,  potatoes,  et  cetera,  were  industriously  disposed 
of.  The  food,  however,  was  of  an  indifferent  quality.  This  I  care- 
lessly mentioned  to  my  next  neighbour  at  table,  who,  however,  with 
an  accent  in  which  I  recognized  the  Swiss,  very  impolitely  replied,  that 
Germans  knew  as  little  of  true  content,  as  of  true  liberty.  I  shrugged 
my  shoulders,  remarking,  that  all  the  world  over,  the  humblest  vassals 


—   89  — 


of  princes,  as  well  as  pastry  cooks  and  confectioners,  were  Swiss,  and 
known  as  a  class  by  that  name.  I  also  took  the  liberty  of  stating, 
that  the  Swiss  heroes  of  liberty  of  the  present  day,  reminded  me  of 
those  tame  hares,  which  we  see  on  market  days  in  public  places, 
where  they  fire  off  pistols  to  the  great  amazement  of  peasants  and 
children — yet  remain  hares  as  before. 

The  Son  of  the  Alps  had  really  meant  nothing  wicked,  "  he  was," 
as  Cervantes  says,  "  a  plump  man,  and  consequently  a  good  man." 
But  my  neighbour  on  the  other  side,  a  Greifswalder,  was  deeply 
touched  by  the  assertion  of  the  Swiss.  Energetically  did  he  assert 
that  German  ability  and  simplicity  were  not  as  yet  extinguished, 
struck  in  a  threatening  manner  on  his  breast,  and  gulped  down  a 
tremendous  flagon  of  white-beer.  The  Swiss  said,  "  Nu  !  Nu  !"  But 
the  more  appeasingly  and  apologetically  he  said  this,  so  much  the 
faster  did  the  Greifswalder  get  on  with  his  riot.  He  was  a  man  of 
those  days,  when  hair-cutters  came  near  dying  of  starvation.  He 
wore  long  locks,  a  knightly  cap,  a  black  old  German  coat,  a  dirty 
shirt,  which,  at  the  same  time,  did  duty  as  a  waistcoat,  and  beneath 
it  a  medallion,  with  a  tassel  of  the  hair  of  Blücher's  grey  horse.  His 
appearance  was  that  of  a  full  grown  fool.  I  am  always  ready  for 
something  lively  at  supper,  and  consequently,  held  with  him  a 
patriotic  strife.  He  was  of  the  opinion  that  Germany  should  be 
divided  into  thirty-three  districts.  I  asserted  on  the  contrary,  that 
there  should  be  forty-eight,  because  it  would  then  be  possible  to  write 
a  more  systematic  guide-book  for  Germany,  and  because  it  is  essential 
that  life  should  be  blended  with  science.  My  Griefswald  friend  was 
also  a  German  bard,  and,  as  he  informed  me  in  confidence,  was  occu- 
pied with  a  national  heroic  poem,  in  honour  of  Herrman  and  the 
Herrman  battle.  Many  an  advantageous  hint  did  I  give  him  on  this 
subject.  I  suggested  to  him  that  the  morasses  and  crooked  paths 
of  the  Teutobergian  forest,  might  be  very  onomatopoically  indicated 
by  means  of  watery  and  ragged  verse,  and  that  it  would  be  merely  a 
patriotic  liberty,  should  the  Romans  in  his  poem,  chatter  the  wildest 
nonsense.  I  hope  that  this  bit  of  art  will  succeed  in  his  works,  as  in 
those  of  other  Berlin  poets,  even  to  the  minutest  particular. 

The  company  around  the  table  gradually  became  better  acquainted, 
and  much  noisier.  Wine  banished  beer,  punch  bowls  steamed,  and 
drinking,  smolliren*  and  singing,  were  the  order  of  the  night.  The 


*  Contracted  from  the  Latin  sibi  molire  amicum.  Schmolliren,  signifies  to  gain  a  friend, 
to  drink  brotherhood  with  him,  to  give  and  take  the  "  brother-kiss,"  and  finally,  to  Duzen, 

8* 


—   90  — 


old  "  Landsfatlier"  and  the  beautiful  songs  of  W.  Müller,  Ruckert, 
Uhland  and  others,  rang  around,  with  the  exquisite  airs  of  Meth- 
f essel.  Best  of  all,  sounded  our  own  Arndt's  German  words, 
"  The  Lord  who  bade  iron  grow,  wished  for  no  slaves."  And  out  of 
doors  it  roared  as  if  the  old  mountain  sang  with  us,  and  a  few  reeling 
friends  even  asserted,  that  he  merrily  shook  his  bald  head,  which 
caused  the  great  unsteadiness  of  our  floor.  The  bottles  became 
emptier  and  the  heads  of  the  company  fuller.  One  bellowed  like  an 
ox,  a  second  piped,  a  third  declaimed  from  "  The  Crime,"  a  fourth 
spoke  Latin,*  a  fifth  preached  temperance,  and  a  sixth,  assuming  the 
chair  learnedly,  lectured  as  follows  :  "  Gentlemen  !  The  world  is  a 
round  cylinder,  upon  which  human  beings  as  individual  pins,  are 
scattered  apparently  at  random.  But  the  cylinder  revolves,  the  pins 
knock  together  and  give  out  tones,  some  very  frequently,  and  others 
but  seldom  ;  all  of  which  causes  a  remarkably  complicated  sound, 
which  is  generally  known  as  Universal  History.  We  will,  in  conse- 
quence, speak  first  of  music,  then  of  the  world,  and  finally  of  history ; 
which  latter,  we  divide  into  positive  and  Spanish  flies — "  And  so, 
sense  and  nonsense,  went  rattling  on. 

A  jolly  Mechlenburger,  who  held  his  nose  to  his  punch-glass,  and 
smiling  with  happiness  snuffed  up  the  perfume,  remarked  that  it 
caused  in  him  a  sensation  as  if  he  were  standing  again  before  the 
refreshment  table  in  the  Schwerin  Theatre !  Another  held  his  wine 
glass  like  a  lorgnette  before  his  eye,  and  appeared  to  be  carefully 
.studying  the  company,  while  the  red  wine  trickled  down  over  his  cheek 
into  his  projecting  mouth.  The  Greifswalder,  suddenly  inspired,  cast 
himself  upon  my  breast,  and  shouted  wildly,  "  Oh,  that  thou  couldst 
understand  me,  for  I  am  a  lover,  a  happy  lover;  for  I  am  loved  again, 
and  G — d  d — n  me,  she's  an  educated  girl,  for  she  has  a  full  bosom, 
wears  a  white  gown,  and  plays  the  piano  !"  But  the  Swiss  wept,  and 
tenderly  kissed  my  hand,  and  ever  whimpered,  "  Oh,  Molly  dear !  oh, 
Molly  dear !" 

or  call  the  friend  Du  or  thou,  equivalent  to  the  French  tutoyer.  The  act  of  schmdttiren  is 
termed  Schmollis,  from  the  Latin,  sis  mihi  mollis  amicus.  "Be  my  good  friend !"  The 
schmollis  in  Universities,  is  accompanied  by  a  variety  of  ceremonies  more  or  less  imposing. 
The  Crown-Schmollis,  sung  at  a  Cammers  or  general  meeting,  involves  a  vast  amount  of 
singing,  &c.  To  refuse  a  schmollis  is  equivalent  to  a  challenge.  It  is  generally  asserted, 
that  to  break  the  schmoVis,  or  to  call  the  friend  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness,  "  you," 
instead  of ,!  thou,"  calls  for  the  forfeit  of  a  bottle  of  wine,  but  I  have  never  observed  that 
this  rule  was  enforced  against  any,  save  foxes  or  freshmen,  and  the  like. — [Note  by  Trans- 
lator.] 

*  Was  tipsy.  Wein  spricht  Latein — u  Wine  speaks  Latin,"  says  an  old  proverb,  fully 
illustrated  by  Rabelais. — [Note  by  Translator.'] 


—   91  — 


During  this  crazy  scene,  in  which  plates  learned  to  dance  and 
glasses  to  fly,  there  sat  opposite  me  two  youths,  beautiful,  and  pale 
as  statues,  one  resembling  Adonis,  the  other  Apollo.  The  faint  rosy 
hue  which  the  wine  spread  over  their  cheeks  was  scarcely  visible. 
They  gazed  on  each  other  with  infinite  affection,  as  if  the  one  could 
read  in  the  eyes  of  the  other,  and  in  those  eyes  there  was  a  light  as 
though  drops  of  light  had  fallen  therein  from  the  cup  of  burning  love, 
which  an  angel  on  high  bears  from  one  star  to  the  other.  They  con- 
versed softly  with  earnest,  trembling  voices,  and  narrated  sad  stories, 
through  all  of  which  ran  a  tone  of  strange  sorrow.  "  Lora  is  also 
dead !"  said  one,  and  sighing,  proceeded  to  tell  of  a  maiden  of  Halle 
who  had  loved  a  student,  and  who  when  the  latter  left  Halle,  spoke 
no  more  to  any  one,  ate  but  little,  wept  day  and  night,  gazing  ever 
on  the  canary-bird  which  her  lover  had  given  her."  The  bird  died, 
and  Lora  did  not  long  survive  it,"  was  the  conclusion,  and  both  the 
youths  sighed  as  though  their  hearts  would  break.  Finally,  the 
other  said,  "My  soul  is  sorrowful — come  forth  with  me  into  the 
dark  night !  Let  me  inhale  the  breath  of  the  clouds  and  the  moon- 
rays.  Partake  of  my  sorrows  !  I  love  thee,  thy  words  are  musical, 
like  the  rustling  of  reeds  and  the  flow  of  rivulets,  they  reecho  in  my 
breast,  but  my  soul  is  sorrowful !" 

Both  of  the  young  men  arose.  One  threw  his  arm  around  the 
neck  of  the  other,  and  thus  left  the  noisy  room.  I  followed,  and  saw 
them  enter  a  dark  chamber,  where  the  one  by  mistake,  instead  of  the 
window,  threw  open  the  door  of  a  large  wardrobe,  and  that  both, 
standing  before  it  with  outstretched  arms,  expressing  poetic  rapture, 
spoke  alternately.  "Ye  breezes  of  darkening  night,"  cried  the  first, 
"how  ye  cool  and  revive  my  cheeks  !  How  sweetly  ye  play  amid  my 
fluttering  locks  !  I  stand  on  the  cloudy  peak  of  the  mountain,  far 
below  me  lie  the  sleeping  cities  of  men,  and  blue  waters  gleam.  List ! 
far  below  in  the  valley  rustle  the  fir-trees  !  Far  above  yonder  hills 
sweep  in  misty  forms  the  spirits  of  my  fathers.  Oh  that  I  could 
hunt  with  ye,  on  your  cloud-steeds,  through  the  stormy  night,  over 
the  rolling  sea,  upwards  to  the  stars  !  Alas  !  I  am  laden  with  griel 
and  my  soul  is  sad  !"  Meanwhile,  the  other  had  also  stretched  out 
his  arms  towards  the  wardrobe,  while  tears  fell  from  his  eyes  as  he 
cried,  to  a  broad  pair  of  yellow  pantaloons  which  he  mistook  for  the 
moon.  "  Fair  art  thou,  Daughter  of  Heaven  !  Lovely  and  blessed 
is  the  calm  of  thy  countenance.  The  stars  follow  thy  blue  path  in 
the  east !  At  thy  glance>  the  clouds  rejoice,  and  their  dark  brows 
gleam  with  light.   Who  is  like  unto  thee  in  Heaven,  thou  the  Night- 


—   92  — 


born?  The  stars  are  ashamed  before  thee,  and  turn  away  their 
green-sparkling  eyes.  Whither — ah,  whither — when  morning  pales 
thy  face  dost  thou  flee  from  thy  path  ?  Hast  thou,  like  me,  thy  hall  ? 
Dwellest  thou  amid  shadows  of  humility  ?  Have  thy  sisters  fallen 
from  Heaven  ?  Are  they  who  joyfully  rolled  with  thee  through  the 
night  now  no  more  ?  Yea,  they  fell  adown  oh,  lovely  light,  and  thou 
lüdest  thyself  to  bewail  them!  Yet  the  night  must  at  some  time 
come  when  thou  too  must  pass  away,  and  leave  thy  blue  path  above 
in  Heaven.  Then  the  stars,  who  were  once  lovely  in  thy  presence, 
will  raise  their  green  heads  and  rejoice.  Now,  thou  art  clothed  in 
thy  starry  splendor,  and  gazest  adown  from  the  gate  of  Heaven. 
Tear  aside  the  clouds,  oh  ye  winds,  that  the  night-born  may  shine 
forth  and  the  bushy  hills  gleam,  and  that  the  foaming  waves  of  the 
sea  may  roll  in  light !" 

A  well  known  and  not  remarkably  thin  friend,  who  had  drunk  more 
than  he  had  eaten,  though  he  had  already  at  supper  devoured  a  piece 
of  beef  which  would  have  dined  six  lieutenants  of  the  guard  and  one 
innocent  child,  here  came  rushing  into  the  room  in  a  very  jovial  man- 
ner, that  is  to  say,  a  la  swine,  shoved  the  two  elegiac  friends  one  over 
the  other  into  the  wardrobe,  stormed  through  the  house-door,  and 
began  to  roar  around  outside,  as  if  raising  the  devil  in  earnest.  The 
noise  in  the  hall  grew  wilder  and  louder — the  two  moaning  and  weep- 
ing friends  lay,  as  they  thought,  crushed  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain; 
from  their  throats  ran  noble  red  wine,  and  the  one  said  to  the  other, 
"  Farewell !  I  feel  that  I  bleed.  Why  dost  thou  waken  me,  oh  breath 
of  Spring ?  Thou  caressest  me,  and  say'st,  'I  bedew  thee  with  drops 
from  heaven.  But  the  time  of  my  withering  is  at  hand — at  hand  the 
storm  which  will  break  away  my  leaves.  To-morrow  the  Wanderer 
will  come — he  who  saw  me  in  my  beauty — his  eyes  will  glance,  as  of 
yore,  around  the  field — in  vain — "  But  over  all  roared  the  well 
known  basso  voice  without,  blasphemously  complaining,  amid  oaths 
and  whoops,  that  not  a  single  lantern  had  been  lighted  along  the 
entire  Weender  street,  and  that  one  could  not  even  see  whose  window 
panes  he  had  smashed. 

I  can  bear  a  tolerable  quantity — modesty  forbids  me  to  say  how 
many  bottles — and  I  consequently  retired  to  my  chamber  in  tolerably 
good  condition.  The  young  merchant  already  lay  in  bed,  enveloped 
in  his  chalk-white  night-cap,  and  yellow  Welsh  flannel."  He  was  not 
asleep,  and  sought  to  enter  into  conversation  with  me.  He  was  a 
Frankfort-on-Mainerr  and  consequently  spoke  at  once  of  the  Jews, 


—    93  — 


declared  that  they  had  lost  all  feeling  for  the  beautiful  and  noble,  and 
that  they  sold  English  goods  twenty-five  per  cent,  under  manufac- 
turers' prices.  A  fancy  to  humbug  him  came  over  me,  and  I  told 
him  that  I  was  a  somnambulist,  and  must  beforehand  beg  his  pardon 
should  I  unwittingly  disturb  his  slumbers.  This  intelligence,  as  he 
confessed  the  following  day,  prevented  him  from  sleeping  a  wink 
through  the  whole  night,  especially  since  the  idea  had  entered  his 
head  that  I,  while  in  a  somnambulistic  crisis,  might  shoot  him  with 
the  pistol  which  lay  near  my  bed.  But  in  truth  I  fared  no  better 
myself,  for  I  slept  very  little.  Dreary  and  terrifying  fancies  swept 
through  my  brain.  A  piano-forte  extract  from  Dante's  Hell.  Finally 
I  dreamed  that  I  saw  a  law  opera,  called  the  Falcidia,*  with  libretto 
on  the  right  of  inheritance  by  Gans,  and  music  by-SpoNTiNi.  A  crazy 
dream !  I  saw  the  Roman  Forum  splendidly  illuminated.  In  it, 
Servius  Asinius  Göschenus  sitting  as  prcetor  on  his  chair,  and  throw- 
ing wide  his  toga  in  stately  folds,  burst  out  into  raging  recitative ; 
Marcus  Tullius  Elversus,  manifesting  as  prima  donna  legataria  all 
the  exquisite  feminineness  of  his  nature,  sang  the  love-melting  bra- 
vura of  Quicimque  civis  Romanus ;  Referees,  rouged  red  as  sealing- 
wax,  bellowed  in  chorus  as  minors ;  private  tutors,  dressed  as  genii, 
in  flesh-colored  stockinets,  danced  an  anti-Justinian  ballet,  crowning 
with  flowers  the  "  Twelve  Tables,"  while,  amid  thunder  and  lightning, 
rose  from  the  ground  the  abused  ghost  of  Roman  Legislation,  accom- 
panied by  trumpets,  gongs,  fiery  rain,  cum  omni  causa. 

From  this  confusion  I  was  rescued  by  the  landlord  of  the  Brocken, 
when  he  awoke  me  to  see  the  sunrise.  Above,  on  the  tower,  I  found 
several  already  waiting,  who  rubbed  their  freezing  hands ;  others, 
with  sleep  still  in  their  eyes,  stumbled  around,  until  finally  the  whole 
silent  congregation  of  the  previous  evening  was  re-assembled,  and 
we  saw  how,  above  the  horizon,  there  rose  a  little  carmine-red  ball, 
spreading  a  dim,  wintry  illumination.  Far  around,  amid  the  mists, 
rose  the  mountains,  as  if  swimming  in  a  white  rolling  sea,  only  their 
summits  being  visible,  so  that  we  could.imagine  ourselves  standing  on 
a  little  hill  in  the  midst  of  an  inundated  plain,  in  which  here  and 
there  rose  dry  clods  of  earth.  To  retain  that  which  I  saw  and  felt,  I 
sketched  the  following  poem  : 


*  The  "  Falcidian  law"  was  so  called  from  its  proposer,  Falcidius.  According  to  it,  the 
testator  was  obliged  to  leave  at  least  the  fourth  part  of  his  fortune  to  the  person  whom 
he  named  his  heir.   Vide  Pandects  of  Justinian. 


—   94  — 


In  the  east  'tis  ever  brighter, 

Though  the  sun  gleams  cloudily; 
Far  and  wide  the  mountain  summits 

Swim  above  the  misty  sea. 

Had  I  seven-mile  boots  for  travel, 

Like  the  fleeting  winds  I'd  rove, 
Over  valley,  rock  and  river, 

To  the  home  of  her  I  love. 

From  the  bed  where  now  she's  sleeping 

Soft,  the  curtain  I  would  slip ; 
Softly  kiss  her  child-like  forehead, 

Soft  the  ruby  of  her  lip. 

And  yet  softer  would  I  whisper 
In  the  little  snow-white  ear : 
"  Think  in  dreams  that  I  still  love  thee, 
Think  in  dreams  I'm  ever  dear." 

Meanwhile  my  desire  for  breakfast  greatly  increased,  and  after  paying 
a  few  attentions  to  my  ladies,  I  hastened  down  to  drink  coffee  in  the 
warm  public-room.  It  was  full  time,  for  all  within  me  was  as  sober 
and  as  sombre  as  in  the  St.  Stephen's  church  of  Goslar.  But  with 
the  Arabian  beverage,  the  warm  Orient  thrilled  through  my  limbs. 
Eastern  roses  breathed  forth  their  perfumes,  the  students  were 
changed  to  camels,*  the  Brocken-house-maids  with  their  Congreve- 
rocket-glances  became  liouris,  the  Philistine-roses,  minarets,  &c.  &c. 

But  the  book  which  lay  near  me,  though  full  of  nonsense,  was  not 
the  Koran.  It  was  the  so-called  Brocken-boolc,  in  which  all  tra- 
vellers who  ascend  the  mountain  write  their  names, — many  inscrib- 
ing their  thoughts  or  in  default  thereof,  their  "feelings."  Many 
even  express  themselves  in  verse.  In  this  book,  one  may  observe 
the  horrors  which  result  when  the  great  Philistine  Pegasus  at  conve-. 
nient  opportunities  such  as*  this  on  the  Brocken,  becomes  poetic. 


*  A  "  camel"  in  German  student  dialect,  signifies  according  to  the  erudite  Dr.  Vollmajjn 
(Burschik,  Worterb,  p.  100.)  1st.  A  student  not  in  any  regular  club.  2d.  A  savage.  3d 
A  finch.  4th.  A  badger.  5th.  A  stag.  6th.  A  hare.  7th.  *  *  *  *  8th.  An  "  outsider." 
9th.  A  Jew.  10th.  A  nigger.  11th.  A  Bedouin.  12th.  One  who  neither  drinks,  smokes, 
fights  duels,  cares  for  girls,  nor  renoums  it.  To  renown  it,  (rennomiren)  is  equivalent  to 
the  American  phrase  "  spreads  himself."  The  sum  total  of  Dr.  Vollmann's  definitions 
amount  according  to  German  student  ideas,,  to  what  an  Englishman  would  call  a  muff," 
or  a  "slow  coach."— [Note  by  Translator.'] 


—    95  — 

The  palace  of  the  Prince  of  Paphlagonia  never  contained  such  absurdi- 
ties and  insipidities  as  are  to  be  found  in  this  book.  Those  who 
shine  in  it,  with  especial  splendor,  are  Messieurs  the  excise-collectors, 
with  their  mouldy  "  high-inspirations ;"  counter-jumpers,  with  their 
pathetic  outgushings  of  the  souls  ;  old  German  dilletanti  with  their 
Turner-union-phrases,*  and  Berlin  schoolmasters  with  their  unsuc- 
cessful efforts  at  enthusiasm.  Mr.  Snobbs  will  also  for  once  show 
himself  as  author.  In  one  page,  the  majestic  splendor  of  the 
sun  is  described,. — in  another,  complaints  occur  of  bad  weather,  of 
disappointed  hopes,  and  of  the  clouds  which  obstruct  the  view. 
"  Went  up  wet  without,  and  came  down  '  wet  within/  "f  is  a  standing 
joke,  repeated  in  the  book  hundreds  of  times. 

The  whole  volume  smells  of  beer,  tobacco,  and  cheese ; — we  might 
fancy  it  one  of  Clauren's  romances. 

While  I  drank  the  coffee  aforesaid,  and  turned  over  the  Brocken- 
book, the  Swiss  entered,  his  cheeks  deeply  glowing,  and  described  with 
enthusiasm  the  sublime  view,  which  he  had  just  enjoyed  in  the  tower 
above,  as  the  pure  calm  light  of  the  Sun,  that  symbol  of  Truth,  fought 
with  the  night-mists,  and  that  it  appeared  like  a  battle  of  spirits,  in 
which  raging  giants  brandished  their  long  swords,  where  harnessed 
knights  on  leaping  steeds  chased  each  other,  and  war-chariots,  flut- 
tering banners^  and  extravagant  monster  forms  sank  in  the  wildest 
confusion,  till  all  finally  entwined  in  the  maddest  contortions,  melted 
into  dimness  and  vanished,  leaving  no  trace.  This  demagogical 
natural  phenomenon,  I  had  neglected,  and,  should  the  curious  affair  be 
ever  made  the  subject  of  investigation,  I  am  ready  to  declare  on  oath, 
that  all  I  know  of  the  matter  is  the  flavour  of  the  good  brown  coffee  I 
was  then  tasting. 

Alas  !  this  was  the  guilty  cause  of  my  neglecting  my  fair  lady,  and 
now,  with  mother  and  friend,  she  stood  before  the  door,  about  to  step 
into  her  carriage.  I  had  scarcely  time  to  hurry  to  her,  and  assure 
her  that  it  was  cold.  She  seemed  piqued  at  my  not  coming  sooner, 
but  I  soon  drove  the  clouds  from  her  faif  brow,  by  presenting  to  her 
a  beautiful  flower,  which  I  had  plucked  the  day  before,  at  the  risk  of 
breaking  my  neck,  from  a  steep  precipice.  The  mother  inquired  the 
name  of  the  flower,  as  if  it  seemed  to  her  not  altogether  correct  that 


*The  Turner-unions  are  associations  organized  for  the  purpose  of  Gymnastic  exercise. 
They  may  also  be  regarded  as  revolutionary  political  clubs. 

f  Benebelt  heraufgekommen  und  benebelt  hinunter  gegangen.  "  Came  up  in  a  cloud  and 
"went  down  cloucly.  The  word  "cloudy"  occurs  as  an  English  synonyme  for  intoxication, 
in  a  list  of  such  terms  which  I  have  seen  in  print. — [Note  by  Translator.] 


—    96  — 


her  daughter  should  place  a  strange,  unknown  flower  before  her 
bosom — for  this  was  in  fact  the  enviable  position  which  the  flower 
attained,  and  of  which  it  could  never  have  dreamed  the  day  before, 
when  on  its  lonely  height.  The  silent  friend  here  opened  his  mouth, 
and  after  counting  the  stamina  of  the  flower,  dryly  remarked  that  it 
belonged  to  the  eighth  class. 

It  vexes  me  every  time,  when  I  remember  that  even  the  dear 
flowers  which  God  hath  made,  have  been,  like  us,  divided  into  castes, 
and  like  us,  are  distinguished  by  those  external  names  which  indicate 
descent  and  family.  If  there  must  be  such  divisions,  it  were  better 
to  adopt  those  suggested  by  Theophrastus,  who  wished  that  flowers 
might  be  divided  according  to  souls — that  is,  their  perfumes.  As  for 
myself,  I  have  my  own  system  of  Natural  Science,  according  to 
which,  all  things  are  divided  into  those  which  may — or  may  not  be — 
eaten ! 

The  secret  and  mysterious  nature  of  flowers,  was,  however,  any- 
thing but  a  secret  to  the  elder  lady,  and  she  involuntarily  remarked, 
that  she  felt  happy  in  her  very  soul,  when  she  saw  flowers  growing  iu 
the  garden  or  in  a  room,  while  a  faint,  dreamy  sense  of  pain,  invaria- 
bly affected  her  on  beholding  a  beautiful  flower  with  broken  stalk — 
that  it  was  really  a  dead  body,  and  that  the  delicate  pale  head  of  such 
a  flower-corpse  hung  down  like  that  of  a  dead  infant.  The  lady  here 
became  alarmed  at  the  sorrowful  impression  which  her  remark 
caused,  and  I  flew  to  the  rescue  with  a  few  Yoltairean  verses.  How 
quickly  two  or  three  French  words  bring  us  back  into  the  conven- 
tional concert-pitch  of  conversation.  We  laughed,  hands  were 
kissed,  gracious  smiles  beamed,  the  horses  neighed,  and  the  wagon 
jolted  heavily  and  slowly  adown  the  hill. 

And  now  the  students  prepared  to  depart.  Knapsacks  were 
buckled,  the  bills,  which  were  moderate  beyond  all  expectation,  were 
settled,  the  too  susceptible  house-maids,  upon  whose  pretty  coun- 
tenances the  traces  of  successful  amours  were  plainly  visible,  brought, 
as  is  their  custom,  their  Brocken-bouquets,  and  helped  some  to  adjust 
their  caps  ;  for  all  of  which  they  were  duly  rewarded  with  either 
coppers  or  kisses.  Thus  we  all  went  "  down  hill,"  albeit  one  party, 
among  whom  were  the  Swiss  and  Griefswalder,  took  the  road  towards 
Schierke,  and  the  other  of  about  twenty  men,  among  whom  were  my 
"  land's  people"  and  I ;  led  by  a  guide,  went  through  the  so-called 
"  Snow  Iloles,"  down  to  Ilsenburg. 

Such  a  head-over-heels,  break-neck  piece  of  business !  Halle 
students  travel  quicker  than  the  Austrian  militia.    Ere  I  knew 


—    97  — 

where  I  was,  the  bald  summit  of  the  mountain  with  groups  of  stones 
strewed  over  it,  was  behind  us,  and  we  went  through  the  fir-wood 
which  I  had  seen  the  day  before.  The  sun  poured  down  a  cheerful 
light  on  the  merry  Burschen  as  they  merrily  pressed  onward  through 
the  wood,  disappearing  here,  coming  to  light  again  there,  running  in 
marshy  places,  across  on  shaking  trunks  of  trees,  climbing  over 
shelving  steeps  by  grasping  the  projecting  tree-roots,  while  they 
trilled  all  the  time  in  the  merriest  manner. 

The  lower  we  descended,  the  more  delightfully  did  subterranean 
waters  ripple  around  us ;  only  here  and  there  they  peeped  out  amid 
rocks  and  bushes,  appearing  to  be  reconnoitring  if  they  might  yet 
come  to  light,  until  at  last  one  little  spring  jumped  forth  boldly. 
Then  followed  the  usual  show — the  bravest  one  makes  a  beginning,  and 
then  the  great  multitude  of  hesitaters,  suddenly  inspired  with  courage, 
rush  forth  to  join  the  first.  A  multitude  of  springs  now  leaped  in 
haste  from  their  ambush,  united  with  the  leader,  and  finally  formed 
quite  an  important  brook,  which  with  its  innumerable  water-falls  and 
beautiful  windings  ripples  adown  the,  valley.  This  is  now  the  Use — 
the  sweet,  pleasant  Use.  She  flows  through  the  blest  Ilse-vale,  on 
whose  sides  the  mountains  gradually  rise  higher  and  higher,  being 
clad  even  to  their  base  with  beech-trees,  oaks,  and  the  usual  shrubs, 
the  firs  and  other  needle-covered  evergeens  having  disappeared. 
For  that  variety  of  trees  prevails  upon  the  "  Lower  Harz,"  as  the 
east  side  of  the  Brocken  is  called  in  contradistinction  to  the  west 
side  or  Upper  Harz,  being  really  much  higher  and  better  adapted  to 
the  growth  of  evergreens. 

No  pen  can  describe  the  merriment,  simplicity  and  gentleness  with 
which  the  Use  leaps  or  glides  amid  the  wildly  piled  rocks  which  rise 
in  her  path,  so  that  the  water  strangely  whizzes  or  foams  in  one 
place  amid  rifted  rocks,  and  in  another  wells  through  a  thousand 
crannies,  as  if  from  a  giant  watering-pot,  and  then  in  collected 
stream  trips  away  over  the  pebbles  like  a  merry  maiden.  Yes, — the 
old  legend  is  true,  the  Use  is  a  princess,  who  laughing  in  beauty, 
runs  adown  the  mountain.  How  her  white  foam-garment  gleams  in 
the  sun-shine  !  How  her  silvered  scarf  flutters  in  the  breeze  !  How 
her  diamonds  flash  !  The  high  beech-tree  gazes  down  on  her  like  a 
grave  father  secretly  smiling  at  the  capricious  self-will  of  a  darling 
child,  the  white  birch-trees  nod  their  heads  around  like  delighted 
aunts,  the  proud  oak  looks  on  like  a  not  over-pleased  uncle,  as 
though  he  must  pay  for  all  the  fine  weather ;  the  birds  in  the  air 
sing  their  share  in  their  joy^  the  flowers  on  the  bank  whisper,  "  Oh, 


98 


take  us  with  thee !  take  us  with  thee !  dear  sister  I"  but  the  wild 
maiden  may  not  be  withheld,  and  she  leaps  onward,  and  suddenly 
seizes  the  dreaming  poet,  and  there  streams  over  me  a  flower-rain  ot 
ringing  gleams  and  flashing  tones,  and  all  my  senses  are  lost  in 
beauty  and  splendour,  as  I  hear  only  the  voice  sweet  pealing  as  a 
tiute. 

I  am  the  Princess  Use, 

And  dwell  in  Ilsenstein ; 
Come  with  me  to  my  castle, 

Thou  shalt  be  blest — and  mine  ! 

With  ever-flowing  fountains 

111  cool  thy  weary  brow ; 
Thou  'It  lose  amid  their  rippling, 

The  cares  which  grieve  thee  now. 

In  my  white  arms  reposing 

And  on  my  snow-white  breast 
Thou'lt  dream  of  old,  old  legends 

And  sink  in  joy  to  rest. 

I'll  kiss  thee  and  caress  thee, 

As  in  the  ancient  day 
I  kissed  the  Emperor  Henry, 

Who  long  has  passed  away. 

The  dead  are  dead  and  silent, 

Only  the  living  love  ; 
And  I  am  fair  and  blooming, 

—  Dost  feel  my  wild  heart  move  ? 

And  as  my  heart  is  beating, 

My  crystal  castle  rings  ; 
Where  many  a  knight  and  lady 

In  merry  measure  springs. 

Silk  trains  are  softly  rustling, 

Spurs  ring  from  night  to  morn  ; 
And  dwarfs  are  gaily  drumming, 

And  blow  the  golden  horn. 

As  round  the  Emperor  Henry, 

My  arms  round  thee  shall  fall ; 
I  held  his  ears — he  heard  not 

The  trumpet's  warning  call. 


—    99  - 

We  feel  infinite  happiness  when  the  outer  world  blends  with  the 
world  of  our  own  soul,  and  green  trees,  thoughts,  the  songs  of  birds, 
gentle  melancholy,  the  blue  of  heaven,  memory,  and  the  perfume  of 
flowers,  run  together  in  sweet  arabesques.  Women  best  understand 
this  feeling,  and  this  may  be  the  cause  that  such  a  sweet, incredulous 
smile  plays  around  their  lips  when  we,  with  school-pride,  boast  of  our 
logical  deeds  ; — how  we  have  classified  everything  so  nicely  into  sub- 
jective and  objective, — how  our  heads  are  provided,  apothecary-like, 
with  a  thousand  drawers,  one  of  which  contains  reason,  another 
understanding,  a  third  wretched  wit,  and  the  fifth  nothing  at  all — 
that  is  to  say,  the  Idea. 

As  if  wandering  in  dreams,  I  scarcely  observed  that  we  had  left 
the  depths  of  the  Ilsethal  and  were  now  again  climbing  up  hill.  This 
was  steep  and  difficult  work,  and  many  of  us  lost  our  breath.  But 
like  our  late  lamented  cousin,  who  now  lies  buried  at  Mölln,  we  con- 
stantly kept  in  mind  the  ease  with  which  we  should  descend,  and  were 
much  the  better  off  in  consequence.  Finally  we  reached  the  Ilsenstein. 

This  is  an  enormous  granite  rock,  which  rises  high  and  boldly  from 
a  glen.  On  three  sides  it  is  surrounded  by  woody  hills,  but  from  the 
fourth — the  north — there  is  an  open  view,  and  we  gaze  upon  the 
i  Ilsenburg  and  the  Use  lying  far  below,  and  our  glances  wander  beyond 
into  the  lower  land.  On  the  tower-like  summit  of  the  rock  stands  a 
great  iron  cross,  and  in  case  of  need  there  is  also  here  a  resting-place 
for  four  human  feet. 

As  nature,  through  picturesque  position  and  form,  has  adorned  the 
Ilsenstein  with  strange  and  beautiful  charms,  so  has  also  Legend 
poured  over  it  her  rosy  light.  According  to  Gottschalk,  "  the  peo- 
ple say  that  there  once  stood  here  an  enchanted  castle,  in  which  dwel  t 
the  fair  princess  Ilse,  who  yet  bathes  every  morning  in  the  Ilse.  H  1 
who  is  so  fortunate  as  to  hit  upon  the  exact  time  and  place,  will  be 
led  by  her  into  the  rock,  where  her  castle  lies,  and  receive  a  royal 
reward."  Others  narrate  a  pleasant  legend  of  the  loves  of  the  Ladv 
Ilse  and  of  the  Knight  of  Westenbukg,  which  has  been  romantically 
sung  by  one  of  our  most  noted  poets,  in  the  "Evening  Journal." 
Others  again  say  that  it  was  the  old  Saxon  Emperor  Henry,  who 
passed  in  pleasure  his  imperial  hours  with  the  water-nymph,  Ilse,  in 
her  enchanted  castle.  A  later  author,  one  Niemann,  Esq.,  who  has 
written  a  Hartz  Guide,  in  which  the  heights  of  the  hills,  variations 
of  the  compass,  town  finances,  and  similar  matters  are  described 
with  praise-worthy  accuracy,  asserts,  however,  that  "  what  is  narrated 
of  the  Princess  Ilse  belongs  entirely  to  the  realm  of  fable."    So  all  ! 

A 


—    100  — 

men,  to  whom  a  beautiful  princess  has  never  appeared,  assert ;  but 
we  who  have  been  especially  favored  by  fair  ladies,  know  better. 
And  this  the  Emperor  Henry  knew  too !  It  was  not  without  cause 
that  the  old  Saxon  emperors  held  so  firmly  to  their  native  Hartz. 
Let  any  one  only  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  fair  Lunenburg  Chron- 
icle, where  the  good  old  gentlemen  are  represented  in  wondrously 
true-hearted  wood-cuts  as  well  weaponed,  high  on  their  mailed  war 
steeds  ;  the  holy  imperial  crown  on  their  blessed  heads,  sceptre  and 
sword  in  firm  hands ;  and  then  in  their  dear  bearded  faces  he  can 
plainly  read  how  they  often  longed  for  the  sweet  hearts  of  their  Hartz 
princesses,  and  for  the  familiar  rustling  of  the  Hartz  forests,  when 
they  lingered  in  distant  lands.  Yes, — even  when  in  the  orange  and 
poison-gifted  Italy,  whither  they,  with  their  followers,  were  often 
enticed  by  the  desire  of  becoming  Roman  Emperors — a  genuine  Ger- 
man lust  for  title,  which  finally  destroyed  emperor  and  realm. 

I,  however,  advise  every  one  who  may  hereafter  stand  on  the  sum- 
|  mit  of  the  Ilsenburg,  to  think  neither  of  emperor  and  crown,  nor  of 
the  fair  Use,  but  simply  of  his  own  feet.  For  as  I  stood  there,  lost 
in  thought,  I  suddenly  heard  the  subterranean  music  of  the  enchanted 
castle,  and  saw  the  mountains  around  begin  to  stand  on  their  heads, 
while  the  red  tiled  roofs  of  Ilsenburg  were  dancing,  and  green  trees 
flew  through  the  air,  until  all  was  green  and  blue  before  my  eyes,  and 
I,  overcome  by  giddiness,  would  assuredly  have  fallen  into  the  abyss, 
had  I  not,  in  the  dire  need  of  my  soul,  clung  fast  to  the  iron  cross. 
No  one  who  reflects  on  the  critically  ticklish  situation  in  which  I  was 
then  placed,  can  possibly  find  fault  with  me  for  having  done  this. 


The  Hartz  Journey  is,  and  remains,  a  fragment,  and  the  variegated 
threads  which  were  so  neatly  wound  through  it,  with  the  intention  to 
bind  it  into  a  harmonious  whole,  have  been  suddenly  snapped  asunder 
I     as  if  by  the  shears  of  the  implacable  Destinies.   It  may  be  that  I  will 
I     one  day  weave  them  into  new  songs,  and  that  that  which  is  now 
j     stingily  withheld,  will  then  be  spoken  in  full.    But  when  or  what 
we  have  spoken  will  all  come  to  one  and  the  same  thing  at  last, 
provided  that  we  do  but  speak.    The  single  works  may  ever  remain 
fragments,  if  they  only  form  a  whole  by  their  union. 

By  such  a  connection  the  defective  may  here  and  there  be  supplied, 
j     the  rough  be  polished  down,  and  that  which  is  altogether  too  harsh  be 
modified  and  softened.  This  is  perhaps  especially  applicable  to  the  first 
pages  of  the  Hart  z  journey,  and  they  would  in  all  probability  have  caused 


—    101  — 


a  far  less  unfavourable  impression  could  the  reader  in  some  other  place 
have  learned  that  the  ill-humor  which  I  entertain  for  Güttingen  in 
general,  although  greater  than  I  have  here  expressed  it,  is  still  far 
from  being  equal  to  the  respect  which  I  entertain  for  certain  individuals 
there.  And  why  should  I  conceal  the  fact  that  I  here  allude  par- 
ticularly to  that  estimable  man,  who  in  earlier  years  received  me  so 
kindly,  inspiring  me  even  then  with  a  deep  love  for  the  study  of  His- 
tory ;  who  strengthened  my  zeal  for  it  later  in  life  and  thus  led  my 
soul  to  calmer  paths ;  who  indicated  to  my  peculiar  disposition  its 
peculiar  paths,  and,  who  finally  gave  me  those  historical  consolations, 
without  which  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  support  the  painful 
events  of  the  present  day.  I  speak  of  George  Saetorius,  the  great 
investigator  of  history  and  of  humanity,  whose  eye  is  a  bright  star 
in  our  dark  times,  and  whose  hospitable  heart  is  ever  open  to  all  the 
griefs  and  joys  of  others — for  the  needs  of  the  beggar  or  the  king, 
and  for  the  last  sighs  of  nations  perishing  with  their  gods. 

I  cannot  here  refrain  from  remarking  that  the  Upper  Hartz — that 
portion  of  which  I  described  as  far  as  the  beginning  of  the  Ilsethal, 
did  not  by  any  means,  make,  so  favourable  an  impression  on  me  as  the 
romantic  and  picturesque  Lower  Hartz,  and  in  its  wild,  dark  fir-tree 
beauty  contrasts  strangely  with  the  other,  just  as  the  three  valleys 
formed  by  the  Use,  the  Bode  and  the  Selke,  beautifully  contrast 
with  each  other,  when  we  are  able  to  individualize  the  character  of 
each.  They  are  three  beautiful  women  of  whom  it  is  impossible  to 
determine  which  is  the  fairest. 

I  have  already  spoken  and  sung  of  the  fair,  sweet  Use,  and  how 
sweetly  and  kindly  she  received  me.  The  darker  beauty — the  Bode — 
was  not  so  gracious  in  her  reception,  and  as  I  first  beheld  her  in  the 
smithy-dark,  Turnip-land,  she  appeared  to  me  to  be  altogether  ill-na- 
tured and  hid  herself  beneath  a  silver-grey  rain-veil :  but  with  impa- 
tient love  she  suddenly  threw  it  off;  as  I  ascended  the  summit  of  the 
Rosstrappe,  her  countenance  gleamed  upon  me  with  the  sunniest 
splendour,  from  every  feature  beamed  the  tenderness  of  a  giantess, 
and  from  the  agitated,  rocky  bosom,  there  was  a  sound  as  of  sighs  of 
deep  longing  and  melting  tones  of  woe.  Less  tender,  but  far  merrier, 
did  I  find  the  pretty  Selke,  an  amiable  lady  whose  noble  simplicity 
and  calm  repose  held  at  a  distance  all  sentimental  familiarity ;  but 
who  by  a  half-concealed  smile  betrayed  her  mocking  mood.  It  was 
perhaps  to  this  secret,  merry  spirit  that  I  might  have  attributed  the 
many  "little  miseries"  which  beset  me  in  the  Selkethal- — as  for  instance, 
when  I  sought  to  spring  over  the  rivulet,  I  plunged  in  exactly  up  to 


—    102  — 

my  middle ;  how  whet)  1  continued  my  wet  campaign  with  slippers, 
one  of  them  was  soon  "  not  at  hand,"  or  rather  "  not  at  foot,"  for  I 
lost  it : — how  a  puff  of  wind  bore  away  my  cap, — how  thorns  scratched 
me,  &c,  &c.  Yet  do  I  forgive  the  fair  lady  all  this,  for  she  is  fair. 
And  even  now  she  stands  before  the  gates  of  Imagination,  in  all  her 
silent  loveliness  and  seems  to  say.  "Though  I  laugh  I  mean  no 
harm,  and  I  pray  you,  sing  of  me  I"  The  magnificent  Bode  also  sweeps 
into  my  memory  and  her  dark  eye  says,  "Thou  art  like  me  in  pride 
I  and  in  pain,  and  I  will  that  thou  lovest  me.  Also  the  fair  Use  comes 
merrily  springing,  delicate  and  fascinating  in  mien,  form,  and  motion, 
in  all  things  like  the  dear  being  who  blesses  my  dreams,  and  like  her 
she  gazes  on  me  with  unconquerable  indifference,  and  is  withal  so 
deeply,  so  eternally,  so  manifestly  true.  Well,  I  am  Paris,  and  I 
award  the  apple  to  the  fair  Use. 

It  is  the  first  of  May,  and  spring  is  pouring  like  a  sea  of  life  over 
the  earth,  a  foam  of  white  blossoms  covers  the  trees,  the  glass  in  the 
town  windows  flashes  merrily,  swallows  are  again  building  on  the 
roofs,  people  saunter  along  the  street,  wondering  that  the  air  affects 
them  so  much,  and  that  they  feel  so  cheerful ;  the  oddly  dressed  Yier- 
lander  girls  are  selling  bouquets  of  violets,  foundling  children,  with 
their  blue  jackets  and  dear  little  illegitimate  faces,  run  along  the 
Jun  of  entstieg,  as  happily  as  if  they  had  all  found  their  fathers ;  the 
beggar  on  the  bridge  looks  as  jolly  as  though  he  had  won  the  first 
lottery-prize,  and  even  on  the  grimy  and  as  yet  un-hung  pedlar,  who 
scours  about  with  his  rascally  "  manufactory  goods"  countenance,  the 
sun  shines  with  his  best-natured  rays, — I  will  take  a  walk  beyond  the 
town-gate. 

It  is  the  first  of  May,  and  I  think  of  thee,  thou  fair  Ilse — or  shall 
I  call  thee  by  the  name  which  I  better  love,  of  Agxes  ? — I  think  of 
thee  and  would  fain  see  once  more  how  thou  leapest  in  light  adown 
thy  hill.  But  best  of  all  were  it,  could  I  stand  in  the  valley  below, 
and  hold  thee  in  my  arms.  It  is  a  lovely  day  1  Green — the  colour  of 
hope — is  everywhere  around  me.  Everywhere,  flowers — those  dear 
wonders — are  blooming,  and  my  heart  will  bloom  again  also.  This 
heart  is  also  a  flower  of  strange  and  wondrous  sort.  It  is  no  modest 
violet,  no  smiling  rose,  no  pure  lily,  or  similar  flower,  which  with  good 
gentle  loveliness  makes  glad  a  maiden's  soul,  and  may  be  fitly 
placed  before  her  pretty  breast,  and  which  withers  to-day,  and 
to-morrow  blooms  again.  No,  this  heart  rather  resembles  that 
strange,  heavy  flower,  from  the  woods  of  Brazil,  which,  according  to 
the  legend,  blooms  but  once  in  a  century.    I  remember  well  that  I 


—   103  — 

once,  when  a  boy,  saw  such  a  flower.  During  the  night  we  heard  an 
explosion,  as  of  a  pistol,  and  the  next  morning  a  neighbor's  children 
told  me  that  it  was  their  "  aloe,"  which  had  bloomed  with  the  shot. 
They  led  me  to  their  garden,  where  I  saw  to  my  astonishment  that 
the  low,  hard  plant,  with  ridiculously  broad,  sharp-pointed  leaves, 
which  were  capable  of  inflicting  wounds,  had  shot  high  in  the  air  and 
bore  aloft  beautiful  flowers,  like  a  golden  crown.  "We  children  could 
not  see  so  high,  and  the  old  grinning  Christian,  who  liked  us  all  so 
well,  built  a  wooden  stair  around  the  flower,  upon  which  we  scram- 
bled like  cats,  and  gazed  curiously  into  the  open  calyx,  from  which 
yellow  threads,  like  rays  of  light,  and  strange  foreign  odors,  pressed 
forth  in  unheard-of  splendor. 

Yes,  Agnes,  this  flower  blooms  not  often,  not  without  effort ;  and 
according  to  my  recollection  it  has  as  yet  opened  but  once,  and  that 
must  have  been  long  ago — certainly  at  least  a  century  since.  And  I 
believe  that,  gloriously  as  it  then  unfolded  its  blossoms,  it  must  now 
miserably  pine  for  want  of  sunshine  and  warmth,  if  it  is  not  indeed 
shattered  by  some  mighty  wintry  storm.  But  now  it  moves,  and 
swells,  and  bursts  in  my  bosom — dost  thou  hear  the  explosion? 
Maiden,  be  not  terrified !  I  have  not  shot  myself,  but  my  love  has 
burst  its  bud  and  shoots  upwards  in  gleaming  songs,  in  eternal  dithy- 
rambs, in  the  most  joyful  fullness  of  poesy! 

But  if  this  high  love  has  grown  too  high,  then,  young  lady,  take  it 
comfortably,  climb  the  wooden  steps,  and  look  from  them  down  into 
my  blooming  heart. 

It  is  as  yet  early ;  the  sun  has  hardly  left  half  his  road  behind 
him,  and  my  heart  already  breathes  forth  so  powerfully  its  perfumed 
vapor  that  it  bewilders  my  brain,  and  I  no  longer  know  where  irony 
ceases  and  heaven  begins,  or  that  I  people  the  air  with  my  sighs,  and 
that  I  myself  would  fain  dissolve  into  sweet  atoms  in  the  uncreated 
Divinity ; — how  will  it  be  when  night  comes  on,  and  the  stars  shine 
out  in  heaven,  "the  unlucky  stars,  who  could  tell  thee  " 

It  is  the  first  of  May,  the  lowest  errand  boy  has  to-day  a  right  to 
be  sentimental,  and  would  you  deny  the  privilege  to  a  poet? 


THE  NORTH  SEA. 


(1825  —  1826.) 

Motto  :  Xenophon's  Anabasis,  IV.  7. 


PART  FIRST. 

(1825.) 

f; 

TWILIGHT* 

On  the  white  strand  of  Ocean, 

Sat  I,  sore  troubled  with  thought,  and  alone. 

The  sun  sank  lower  and  lower,  and  cast 

Red  glowing  shadows  on  the  water, 

And  the  snow-white,  rolling  billows 

By  the  flood  impelled, 

Foamed  up  while  roaring  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  wondrous  tumult,  a  whistling  and  whispering, 

A  laughing  and  murmuring,  sighing  and  washing, 

And  mid  them  a  lullaby  known  to  me  only — 

It  seemed  that  I  thought  upon  legends  forgotten, 

World-old  and  beautiful  stories, 

"Which  I  once,  when  little, 

From  the  neighbor's  children  had  heard, 

When  we,  of  summer  evenings, 

Sat  on  the  steps  before  the  house-door, 


•  The  Translator  does  not  venture  to  hope  that  he  has  succeeded  in  giving,  in  all 
respects,  a  perfect  version  of  the  extraordinary  series  of  poems  which  form  the  first  part 
of  The  North  Sea.   Those  familiar  with  the  original  will  possibly  be  lenient. 

(105) 


—   106  — 


Bending  us  down  to  the  quiet  narrative, 
With  little,  listening  hearts, 
And  curious  cunning  glances  ; — 
"While  near,  the  elder  maidens, 
Close  by  sweet  smelling  pots  of  roses, 
At  the  windows  were  calmly  leaning, 
Eosy-hued  faces, 
Smiling  and  lit  by  the  moon. 


2> 

SUNSET. 

The  sun  in  crimsoned  glory  falls 

Down  to  the  ever  quivering, 

Grey  and  silvery  world  sea ; 

Airy  figures,  warm  in  rosy-light, 

Quiver  behind,  while  eastward  rising, 

From  autumn-like  darkening  veils  of  vapour, 

With  sorrowful,  death-pale  features, 

Breaks  the  silent  moon, 

Like  sparks  of  light  behind  her, 

Cloud-distant,  glimmer  the  planets. 

Once  there  shone  in  Heaven, 

Bound  in  marriage, 

Luna  the  goddess,  and  Sol,  the  god, 

And  the  bright  thronging  stars  in  light  swam  round  them, 

Their  little  and  innocent  children. 

But  evil  tongues  came  whisp'ring  quarrels. 

And  they  parted  in  anger, 

The  mighty,  light-giving  spouses. 

Now,  but  by  day,  in  loneliest  light 

The  sun-god  walks  yonder  on  high, 

All  for  his  lordliness 

Ever  prayed  to  and  sung  by  many 

By  haughty,  heartless,  prosperous  mortals, 

But  still  by  night 

In  heaven,  wanders  Luna, 


—    107  — 


The  wretched  mother 

With  all  her  orphaned  starry  children, 

And  she  shines  in  silent  sorrow, 

And  soft-loving  maidens  and  gentle  poets, 

Offer  their  songs  and  their  sorrows. 

The  tender  Lnna !  woman  at  heart, 

Ever  she  loveth  her  beautiful  lord 

And  at  evening,  trembling  and  pale, 

Out  she  peeps  from  light  cloud  curtains, 

And  looks  to  the  lost  one  in  sorrow, 

Fain  would  she  cry  in  her  anguish :  "  Come  1 

Come,  the  children  are  longing  for  thee — " 

In  vain, — the  haughty-souled  god  of  fire, 

Flashes  forth  at  the  sight  of  pale  Luna 

In  doubly  deep  purple, 

For  rage  and  pain, 

And  yielding  he  hastens  him  down 

To  his  ocean-chilled  and  lonely  bed. 

*         *         *  * 
Spirits  whispering  evil 

By  their  power  brought  pain  and  destruction 

Even  to  great  gods  eternal. 

And  the  poor  deities,  high  in  the  heavens, 

Travel  in  sorrow — 

Endless,  disconsolate  journeys, 

And  they  are  immortal, 

Still  bearing  with  them, 

Their  bright-gleaming  sorrow. 

But  I,  the  mortal, 

Planted  so  lowly,  with  death  to  bless  me, 
I  sorrow  no  longer. 


3. 

NIGHT  ON  THE  SEA-SHOEE  . 

Starless  and  cold  is  the  Night, 

The  wild  sea  foams ; 
And  over  the  sea,  flat  on  his  face, 


—   108  — 


Lies  the  monstrous  terrible  North-wind, 
Sighing  and  sinking  his  voice  as  in  secret, 
Like  an  old  grumbler,  for  once  in  good  humor, 

Unto  the  ocean  he  talks, 
And  he  tells  her  wonderful  stories, — 

Giant  legends,  murderous-humored, 

Yery  old  sagas  of  Norway, 
And  midst  them,  far  sounding,  he  howls  while  laughing 

Sorcery-songs  from  the  Edda, 
Grey  old  Runic  sayings, 

So  darkly-stirring  and  magic-inspiring, 
That  the  snow-white  sea-children 
High  are  springing  and  shouting, 

Drunk  with  wanton  joy. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  level,  white  sea-beach, 
Over  the  sand  ever-washed  by  the  flood, 
Wanders  a  stranger  with  wild-storming  spirit, 
And  fiercer  far  than  wind  and  billow ; 
Go  where  he  may, 

Sparks  are  flashing  and  sea-shells  are  cracking, 

And  he  wraps  him  well  in  his  iron-grey  mantle, 

And  quickly  treads  through  the  dark-waving  Night 

Safely  led  by  a  distant  taper 

Which  guiding  and  gladdening  glimmers 

From  the  fisherman's  lonely  hovel. 

Father  and  brother  are  on  the  sea, 
And  all  alone  and  sad,  there  sits 
In  the  hovel  the  fisher's  daughter, 
The  wondrous -lovely  fisher's  daughter, 
She  sits  by  the  hearth, 
Listening  to  the  boiling  kettle's 
Sweet  prophetic,  domestic  humming  ; 
Scattering  light-crackling  wood  on  the  fire, 
And  blows  on  it, 

Till  the  flashing,  ruddy  flame  rays 

Shine  again  in  magic  lustre 

On  her  beautiful  features, 

On  her  tender,  snow-white  shoulder, 

Which  moving,  comes  peeping 

Over  heavy,  dark  grey  linen, 


—    109  — 


And  on  the  little  industrious  hand, 

Which  more  firmly  binds  her  under  garment 

Round  her  well-formed  figure. 

But  lo  !  at  once  the  door  springs  wide, 

And  there  enters  in  haste  the  benighted  stranger ; 

Love  assuring  rest  his  glances 

On  the  foam-white  slender  maiden, 

Who  trembling  near  him  stands, 

Like  a  storm  terrified  lily ; 

And  he  casts  on  the  floor  his  mantle, 

And  laughs  and  speaks : 

"Seestthou,  my  child,  I  keep  my  word. 
For  I  seek  thee,  and  with  me  comes 
The  olden  time,  when  the  bright  gods  of  Heaven 
Came  once  more  to  the  daughters  of  mortals, 
And  the  daughters  of  mortals  embraced  them, 
And  from  them  gave  birth  to 
Sceptre-carrying  races  of  monarchs, 
And  heroes  astounding  the  world. 
Yet  stare  not,  my  child,  any  longer 
At  my  divinity, 

And  I  entreat  thee,  make  some  tea  with  rum, 

For  without,  it  is  cold, 

And  by  such  a  night  air 

We  too  oft  freeze,  yes  we,  the  undying, 

And  easily  catch  the  divinest  catarrhs 

And  coughs,  which  may  last  us  for  ever." 


4. 

POSEIDON. 

The  sun's  bright  rays  were  playing, 

Over  the  far,  away-rolling  sea; 

Far  in  the  harbor  glittered  the  ship, 

Which  to  my  home  ere  long  should  bear  me ; 

But  we  wanted  favourable  breezes, 

And  I  still  sat  calm  on  the  snow-white  sea  beach, 

Alone  on  the  strand, 

•  10 


—   110  — 


And  I  read  the  song  of  Odysseus, 

The  ancient,  ever  new-born  song, 

And  from  its  ocean-rippled  pages, 

Friendly  there  arose  to  me 

The  breath  of  immortals, 

And  the  light-giving  human  spring  tide, 

And  the  soft  blooming  heaven  of  Hellas. 

My  noble  heart  accompanied  truly, 

The  son  of  Laertes  in  wand'ring  and  sorrow, 

Set  itself  with  him,  troubled  in  spirit, 

By  bright  gleaming  fire-sides, 

By  fair  queens,  winning,  purple  spinning, 

And  help'd  him  to  lie  and  escape,  glad  singing 

From  giant-caverns  and  nymphs  seducing, 

Followed  behind  in  fear-boding  night, 

And  in  storm  and  shipwreck, 

And  thus  suffered  with  him  unspeakable  sorrow. 

Sighing  I  spoke :  "  thou  evil  Poseidon, 

Thy  wrath  is  fearful, 

And  I  myself  dread 

For  my  own  voyage  homeward." 

The  words  were  scarce  spoken, 
"When  up  foamed  the  sea, 
Aüd  from  the  sparkling  waters  rose 
The  mighty  bulrush  crowned  sea-god, 
And  scornful  he  cried  : 

"  Be  not  afraid,  small  poet ! 

I  will  not  in  leastwise  endanger 

Thy  wretched  vessel, 

Nor  put  thy  precious  being  in  terror, 

With  all  too  significant  shaking. 

For  thou,  small  poet,  hast  troubled  me  not, 

Thou  hast  no  turret — though  trifling — destroyed 

In  the  great  sacred  palace  of  Priam, 

Nor  one  little  eye-lash  hast  thou  e'er  singed, 

In  the  eye  of  my  son  Polyphemus  ; 

Thee  with  her  counsels  did  never  protect 


—  Ill  — 


The  goddess  of  wisdom,  Pallas  Athene 
And  so  spake  Poseidon, 
And  sank  him  again  in  the  sea ; 
And  over  the  vulgar  sailor's  joke 
There  laughed  under  the  water 
Amphitrite,  the  fat  old  fish-wife, 
And  the  stupid  daughters  of  Nereus. 

5* 

HOMAGE. 

Ye  poems !  ye  mine  own  valiant  poems ! 

Up,  u^>  and  weapon  ye  ! 

Let  the  loud  trump  be  ringing, 

And  lift  upon  my  shield 

The  fair  young  maiden, 

Who,  now  my  heart  in  full, 

Shall  govern  as  a  sov'reign  queen. 

All  hail  to  thee,  thou  fair  young  queen ! 

From  the  sun  above  me 
I  tear  the  flashing,  ruddy  gold, 
And  weave  therefrom  a  diadem 
For  thy  all  holy  head. 

From  the  fluttering,  blue-silken  heaven's  curtain, 

Wherein  night's  bright  diamonds  glitter, 

I  cut  a  costly  piece, 

To  hang  as  coronation-mantle, 

Upon  thy  white,  imperial  shoulders. 

I  give  to  thee,  dearest,  a  city 

Of  stiffly  adorned  sonnets, 

Proud  triple  verses  and  courteous  stanzas ; 

My  wit  thy  courier  shall  be, 

And  for  court-fool  my  fantasy, 

As  herald,  the  soft  smiling  tears  in  my  escutcheon, 

And  with  them,  my  humor. 

But  I,  myself,  oh  gentle  queen, 

I  bow  before  thee,  lowly, 

And  kneeling  on  scarlet  velvet  cushions, 

I  here  offer  to  thee 


—    112  — 


The  fragments  of  reason, 

Which  from  sheer  pity  once  were  left  to  me 

By  her  who  ruled  before  thee  in  the  realm. 


6. 

EXPLANATION. 

Adown  and  dimly  came  the  evening, 

Wilder  tumbled  the  waves, 

And  I  sat  on  the  strand,  regarding 

The  snow-white  billows  dancing, 

And  then  my  breast  swelled  up  like  the  sea, 

And  longing,  there  seized  me  a  deep  home-sickness, 

For  thee,  thou  lovely  form, 

Who  everywhere  art  near 

And  everywhere  dost  call, 

Everywhere,  everywhere, 

In  the  rustling  of  breezes,  the  roaring  of  Ocean, 
And  in  the  sighing  of  this,  my  sad  heart. 

With  a  light  reed  I  wrote  in  the  sand : 

"Agnes,  I  love  but  thee!" 

But  wicked  waves  came  washing  fast 

Over  the  tender  confession, 

And  bore  it  away. 

Thou  too  fragile  reed,  thou  false  shifting  sand, 
Ye  swift  flowing  waters,  I  trust  ye  no  more! 
The  heaven  grows  darker,  my  heart  grows  wilder, 
And,  with  strong  right  hand,  from  Norway's  forests 
I'll  tear  the  highest  fir-tree, 
And  dip  it  adown 

Into  iEtna's  hot  glowing  gulf,  and  with  such  a 
Fiery,  flaming,  giant  graver, 
I'll  inscribe  on  heaven's  jet-black  cover: 
"  Agnes,  I  love  but  thee." 

And  every  night  I'll  witness,  blazing 
Above  me,  the  endless  flaming  verse, 
And  even  the  latest  races  born  from  me 
Will  read,  exulting,  the  heavenly  motto : 

"Agnes,  I  love  but  thee!" 


—    113  — 


7. 

NIGHT  IN  THE  CABIN. 

The  sea  hath  many  pearl-drops. 
The  heaven  hath  many  planets, 
But  this  fond  heart,  my  heart, 
My  heart  hath  tender  true-love. 

Great  is  the  sea  and  the  heaven, 
Yet  greater  is  my  heart ; 
And  fairer  than  pearl  drops  or  planets 
Flashes  the  love  in  my  bosom. 

Thou  little  gentle  maiden, 

Come  to  my  beating  heart; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven, 

Are  lost  in  loving  frenzy. 

*  *  * 

On  the  dark  blue  heaven  curtain, 
Where  the  lovely  stars  are  gleaming, 
Fain  would  I  my  lips  be  pressing, 
Press  them  wildly,  storm-like  weeping. 

And  those  planets  are  her  bright  eyes 
But  a  thousand  times  repeated ; 
And  they  shine  and  greet  me  kindly, 
From  the  dark  blue  heaven's  curtain. 

To  the  dark  blue  heavenly  curtain 
To  the  eyes  I  love  so  dearly, 
High  my  hands  I  raise  devoutly, 
And  I  pray,  and  I  entreat  her : 

Lovely  eyes,  ye  lights  of  mercy, 
Oh,  I  pray  ye,  bless  my  spirit, 
Let  me  perish,  and  exalt  me 
Up  to  ye,  and  to  your  heaven. 

*  *  * 
From  the  heavenly  eyes  above  me, 
Snow-light  sparks  are  trembling,  falling 
Through  the  night,  and  all  my  spirit, 
Wide  in  love,  flows  forth  and  wider. 

10* 


—   114  — 


Oh,  ye  heavenly  eyes  above  me ! 
Weep  your  tears  upon  my  spirit, 
That  those  living  tears  of  starlight 
O'er  my  soul  may  gently  ripple. 

*  *  * 
Cradled  calm  by  waves  of  ocean, 
And  by  wondrous  dreaming,  musing 
Still  I  lie  within  the  cabin, 

In  my  gloomy  corner  hammock. 

Through  the  open  dead-light  gazing, 
Yonder  to  the  gleaming  star-light, 
To  the  dearest,  sweetest  glances 
Of  my  sweetest,  much-loved  maiden. 

Yes,  those  sweetest,  best  loved  glances, 
Calm  above  my  head  are  shining, 
They  are  ringing,  they  are  peeping, 
From  the  dark  blue  vault  of  heaven. 

To  the  dark  blue  vault  of  heaven 
Many  an  hour  I  gaze  in  rapture, 
Till  a  snow-white  cloudy  curtain 
Hides  from  me  the  best-loved  glances. 

On  the  planking  of  the  vessel, 

Where  my  light  dreaming  head  lies, 

Leap  up  the  waters — the  wild,  dark  waters — 

They  ripple  and  murmur 

Eight  straight  in  my  ear : 

"Thou  crazy  companion! 

Thy  arm  is  short,  and  the  heaven  is  far, 

And  the  stars  up  yonder  are  nailed  down  firmly; 

In  vain  is  thy  longing,  in  vain  is  thy  sighing, 

The  best  thou  canst  do  is  to  go  to  sleep. 

*  *  *  * 

And  I  was  dreaming  of  a  heath  so  dreary, 
Forever  mantled  with  the  sad,  white  snow, 
And  'neath  the  sad  white  snow  I  lay  deep  buried, 
And  slept  the  lonely  ice-cold  sleep  of  death. 

And  yet  on  high  from  the  dark  heaven  were  gazing 
Adown  upon  my  grave  the  starlight  glances, 
Those  sad  sweet  glances  !  and  they  gleamed  victorious, 
So  calmly  cheerful  and  yet  full  of  true  love. 


—    115  — 


8. 

STORM. 

Loud  rages  the  storm, 

And  he  whips  the  waves, 

And  the  waters,  rage-foaming  and  leaping, 

Tower  on  high,  and  with  life  there  come  rolling 

The  snow  white  water-mountains, 

And  the  vessel  ascends  them, 

Earnest  striving, 

Then  quickly  it  darts  adown, 

In  jet-black,  wide  opening,  wat'ry  abysses. — 

Oh,  Sea ! 

Mother  of  Beauty,  born  of  the  foam-billow ! 

Great  Mother  of  all  Love  !  be  propitious  ! 

There  flutters,  corpse  foreboding, 

Around  us  the  spectre-like  sea  gull, 

And  whets  his  sharp  bill  on  the  top-mast, 

And  yearns  with  hunger-lust,  for  the  life-blood 

Of  him  who  sounded  the  praise  of  thy  daughter, 

And  whom  thy  grandson,  the  little  rogue, 

Chose  for  a  plaything, 

In  vain  my  entreaties  and  tears ! 

My  plainings  are  lost  in  the  terrible  storm, 

Mid  war-cries  of  north- winds  ; 

There's  a  roaring  and  whistling,  a  crackling  and  howling, 

Like  a  mad-house  of  noises  ! 

And  amid  them  I  hear  distinctly, 

Sweet  enticing  harp  tones, 

Melody  mad  with  desire, 

Spirit  melting  and  spirit  rending, 

Well  I  remember  the  voices. 

Far  on  the  rocky  coast  of  Scotland, 
Where  the  old  grey  castle  towers 
Over  the  wild- breaking  sea, 
In  a  lofty  arched  window, 
There  stands  a  lovely  sickly  dame, 
Clear  as  crystal,  and  marble  pale, 


—    116  — 


And  she  plays  the  harp  and  sings  ; 
Through  her  locks  the  wind  is  waving, 
And  bears  her  gloomy  song, 
Over  the  broad,  white  storm  rolling  sea. 


9. 

CALM  AT  SEA. 

Ocean  silence  !  rays  are  falling, 
From  the  sun  upon  the  water, 
Like  a  train  of  quivering  jewels 
Sweeps  the  ship's  green  wake  behind  us. 

Near  the  rudder  lies  our  boatswain, 
On  his  face,  and  deeply  snoring ; 
By  the  mast,  his  canvass  sewing, 
Sits  a  little  tarry  sailor. 

But  o'er  all  his  dirty  features 
Glows  a  blush,  and  fear  is  twitching 
Round  his  full  sized  mouth,  and  sadly 
Gaze  his  large  and  glittering  eye-balls. 

For  the  captain  stands  before  him, 
Fumes  and  swears  and  curses  "  Rascal ! 
Rascal ! — there's  another  herring 
Which  you've  stolen  from  the  barrel !" 

Ocean  silence  !    From  the  water 
Up  a  little  fish  comes  shooting, 
Warms  its  head  in  pleasant  sunlight, 
With  its  small  tail  merry  paddling. 

But  the  sea-gull,  sailing  o'er  us, 
Darts  him  headlong  on  the  swimmer, 
And,  with  claws  around  his  booty, 
Flies  and  fades  far,  far  above  me. 


—   117  — 


10. 

A  SEA  PHANTOM. 

But  I  still  leaned  on  the  edge  of  the  vessel, 

Gazing  with  sad-dreaming  glances, 

Down  at  the  crystal-mirror  water, 

Looking  yet  deeper  and  deeper — 

'Till  in  the  sea's  abysses, 

At  first,  like  quivering  vapours, 

Then  slowly, — slowly, — deeper  in  colour, 

Domes  of  churches  and  towers  seemed  rising, 

And  then,  as  clear  as  day  a  city  grand, 

Quaint,  old-fashioned, — Netherlandish. 

And  living  with  men. 

Men  of  high  standing,  wrapped  in  black  mantles, 

With  snowy- white  neck-ruffs  and  chains  of  honour 

And  good  long  rapiers,  and  good  long  faces, 

Treading  in  state  o'er  the  crowded  market, 

To  the  high  steps  of  the  town  hall, 

Where  stone-carved  statues  of  Kaisars 

Kept  watch  with  their  swords  and  sceptres. 

Nor  distant,  near  houses  in  long  array, 

With  windows  clear  as  mirrors, 

Stand  lindens,  cut  in  pyramidal  figures, 

And  maidens  in  silk-rustling  garments  wander. 

A  golden  zone  round  the  slender  waist, 

With  flower-like  faces  modestly  curtained 

In  jet-black  velvet  coverings, 

From  which  a  ringlet-fulness  comes  pressing. 

Quaint  cavalieros  in  old  Spanish  dress, 

Sweep  proudly  along  and  salute  them. 

Elderly  ladies 

In  dark-brown,  old  fashioned  garments, 

With  prayer-book  and  rosary  held  in  their  hands, 

Hasten,  tripping  along, 

To  the  great  Cathedral, 

Attracted  by  bells  loud  ringing, 

And  full-sounding  organ-tones. 

E'en  I  am  seized  at  that  far  sound, 
With  strange,  mysterious  trembling, 


—   118  — 


Infinite  longing,  wondrous  sorrow, 

Steals  through  my  heart, 

My  heart  as  yet  scarce  healed  ; 

It  seems  as  though  its  wounds,  forgotten, 

By  loving  lips  again  were  kissed, 

And  once  again  were  bleeding, 

Drops  of  burning  crimson, 

AVhich  long  and  slowly  trickle  down 

Upon  an  ancient  house  below  there 

In  the  deep,  deep  sea  town, 

On  an  ancient,  high-roofed,  curious  house, 

"Where  lone  and  melancholy, 

Below  by  the  window  a  maiden  sits, 

Her  head  on  her  arm  reclined — 

Like  a  poor  and  uncared-for  child, 

And  I  know  thee,  thou  poor  and  long-sorrowing  child ! 

Thou  didst  hide  thus,  my  dear, 

So  deep,  so  deep  from  me, 

In  infant-like  humor, 

And  now  canst  not  arise, 

And  sittest  strange  amid  stranger  people, 

For  full  five  hundred  years, 

And  I  meanwhile,  my  spirit  all  grief, 

Over  the  whole  broad  world  have  sought  thee. 

And  ever  have  sought  thee, 

Thou  dearly  beloved, 

Thou  the  long-lost  one, 

Thou  finally  found  one — 

At  last  I  have  found  thee,  and  now  am  gazing 

Upon  thy  sweet  face, 

With  earnest,  faithful  glances, 

Still  sweetly  smiling — 

And  never  will  I  again  on  earth  leave  thee, 

I  am 'coming  adown  to  thee, 

And  with  longing,  wide-reaching  embraces, 

Love,  I  leap  down  to  thy  heart ! 

But  just  at  the  right  instant 

The  captain  caught  and  held  me  safe, 

And  drew  me  from  danger, 

And  cried,  half-angry  laughing 

"  Doctor — is  Satan  in  you  ?" 


—   119  — 


IL 

PURIFICATION. 

Stay  thou  in  gloomy  ocean  caverns, 

Maddest  of  dreams, 

Thou  who  once  so  many  a  night, 

Hast  vexed  with  treacherous  joy  my  spirit ; 

And  now,  as  ocean  sprite, 

Even  by  sun-bright  day  dost  annoy  me — 

Rest  where  thou  art,  to  eternity, 

And  I  will  cast  thee  as  offering  down, 

All  my  long-worn  sins  and  my  sorrows, 

And  the  cap  and  bells  of  my  folly, 

Which  so  long  round  my  head  have  rung, 

And  the  ice-cold  slippery  serpent-skin 

Of  hypocrisy, 

Which  so  long  round  my  soul  has  been  twining, 
The  sad,  sick  spirit, 

The  God  disbelieving,  and  angel  denying, 
Miserable  spirit — 

Hitto  ho !  hallo  ho!    There  comes  the  wind  ! 
Up  with  the  sails !  they  flutter  and  belly  ; 
Over  the  silent,  treacherous  surface 
Hastens  the  ship, 

And  loud  laughs  the  spirit  set  free. 


12. 

PEACE. 

High  in  heaven  the  sun  was  standing, 
By  cold-white  vapors  be-dimmed, 
The  sea  was  still, 

And  musing,  I  lay  by  the  helm  of  the  vessel, 

Dreamily  musing, — and  half  in  waking, 

And  half  in  slumber,  I  saw  in  vision, 

The  Saviour  of  Earth. 

In  flowing  snow-white  garments 

He  wandered  giant-high 

Over  land  and  sea  ; 

He  lifted  his  head  unto  Heaven, 


—    120  — 


His  hands  were  stretched  forth  in  blessing 

Over  land  and  sea; 

And  as  a  heart  in  his  breast 

He  bore  the  sun  orb, 

The  ruddy,  radiant  sun-orb, 

And  the  ruddy,  radiant,  burning  heart 

Poured  forth  its  beams  of  mercy 

And  its  gracious  and  love-bless'd  light, 

Enlight'ning  and  warming, 

Over  land  and  sea. 

Sweetest  bell-tones  drew  us  gaily, 

Here  and  there,  like  swans  soft  leading 

By  bands  of  roses  the  smooth-gliding  ship. 

And  swam  with  it  sporting  to  a  verdant  country, 

Where  mortals  dwelt,  in  a  high  towering 

And  stately  town. 

Oh,  peaceful  wonder  !    How  quiet  the  city 

Where  the  sounds  of  this  world  were  silent, 

Of  prattling  and  sultry  employment, 

And  o'er  the  clean  and  echoing  highways 

Mortals  were  walking,  in  pure  white  garments, 

Bearing  palm  branches, 

And  whenever  two  met  together, 

They  saw  each  other  with  ready  feeling, 

And  thrilling  with  true  love  and  sweet  self-denial, 

Each  pressed  a  kiss  on  the  forehead, 

And  then  gazed  above 

To  the  bright  sun-heart  of  the  Saviour, 

Which,  gladly  atoning  his  crimson  blood, 

Flashed  down  upon  them, 

And,  trebly  blessed,  thus  they  spoke : 

"Blessed  be  Jesus  Ohrist  I" 

If  thou  hadst  but  imagined  this  vision, 
What  wouldst  thou  have  given, 
My  excellent  friend? 

Thou  who  in  head  and  limbs  art  so  weak, 
But  in  faith  still  so  mighty, 
And  in  single  simplicity  honourest  the  Trinity, 
And  the  lap-dog,  and  cross,  and  fingers 


—    121  — 


Of  thy  proud  patronness  daily  kissest, 
And  by  piety  hast  worked  thyself  up 
To  "  Hof  rath,"  and  then  to  "Justizrath" 
And  now  art  councillor  under  government, 
In  the  pious  town, 

Where  sand  and  true  faith  are  at  home, 
And  the  patient  Spree,  with  its  holy  water, 
Purifies  souls  and  weakens  their  tea — 
If  thou  hadst  but  imagined  this  vision, 
My  excellent  friend ! 

Thou'dst  take  it  to  some  noble  quarter  for  sale. 
Thy  pale,  white,  quivering  features 
Would  all  be  melting  in  pious  humility, 
And  His  Gracious  Highness, 
Enchanted  and  enraptured, 
Praying  would  sink,  like  thee,  on  his  knee, 
And  his  eyes,  so  sweetly  beaming, 
Would  promise  thee  an  augmented  pension 
Of  a  hundred  current  Prussian  dollars, 
And  thou  wouldst  stammer,  thy  hands  enfolding  ; 
"Blessed  be  Jesus  Christi" 


PAKT  SECOND. 


(1826.) 
1- 

SEA  GREETING. 

Thalatta!  Thalatta  1 

Be  thou  greeted!  thou  infinite  sea! 

Be  thou  greeted  ten  thousand  times, 

With  heart  wild  exulting, 

As  once  thou  wert  greeted 

By  ten  thousand  Grecian  spirits, 

Striving  with  misery,  longing  for  home  again, 

Great,  world-famous  Grecian  true-hearts. 

The  wild  waves  were  rolling, 

Were  rolling  and  roaring, 

The  sunlight  poured  headlong  upon  them 

His  flickering  rosy  radiance, 

The  frightened  fluttering  trains  of  sea-gulls 

Went  flutt'ring  up,  sharp  screaming, 

Loud  stamped  their  horses,  loud  rung  their  armour, 

And  far  it  re-echoed,  like  victor's  shout : 

Thalatta !  Thalatta  I 

Greeting  to  thee,  thou  infinite  sea, 

Like  the  tongue  of  my  country  ripples  thy  water 

Like  dreams  of  my  childhood  seem  the  glimmer, 

On  thy  wild -wavering  watery  realm, 

And  ancient  memories  again  seemed  telling, 

Of  all  my  pleasant  and  wonderful  play  things, 

Of  all  the  bright  coloured  Christmas  presents, 

Of  all  the  branches  of  crimson  coral, 

Small  gold  fish,  pearls  and  beautiful  sea  shells, 

Which  thou  in  secret  ever  keep'st 

Beneath  in  thy  sky  clear  crystal  home. 

(123) 


—    124  — 


Oh  !  how  have  I  yearned  in  desolate  exile ! 

Like  to  a  withered  flowret 

In  a  botanist's  tin  herbarium, 

Lay  the  sad  heart  in  my  breast ; 

Or  as  if  I  had  sat  through  the  weary  winter, 

Sick  in  a  hospital  dark  and  gloomy, 

And  now  I  had  suddenly  left  it, 

And  all  bewild'ring  there  beams  before  me 

Spring,  —green  as  emerald,  waked  by  the  sun  rays, 

And  white  tree-blossoms  are  rustling  around  me, 

And  the  young  flow'rets  gaze  in  my  face, 

With  eyes  perfuming  and  coloured, 

And  it  perfumes  and  hums,  and  it  breathes  and  smiles, 

And  in  the  deep  blue  heaven  sweet  birds  are  singing — ■ 

Thalatta !  Thalatta  1 

Thou  brave,  retreating  heart ! 
How  oft,  how  bitter  oft 

The  barbarous  dames  of  the  North  have  pressed  thee  round ! 

From  blue  eyes,  great  and  conquering, 

They  shot  their  burning  arrows ; 

With  artful  polished  phrases, 

Often  they  threatened  to  cleave  my  bosom, 

With  arrow-head  letters  full  oft  they  smote 

My  poor  brain  bewildered  and  lost — 

All  vainly  held  I  my  shield  against  them, 

Their  arrows  hissed,  and  their  blows  rang  round  me, 

And  by  the  cold  North's  barbarous  ladies 

Then  was  I  driv'n,  e'en  to  the  sea, 

And  free  breathing  I  hail  thee,  oh  Sea ! 

Thou  dearest,  rescuing  Sea, 

Thalatta!  Thalatta! 


2. 

STORM. 

Dakk  broods  a  storm  on  the  ocean, 
And  through  the  deep,  black  wall  of  clouds, 
Gleams  the  zig-zag  lightning  flash, 
Quickly  darting  and  quick  departing. 


—    125  — 


Like  a  joke  from  the  head  of  Kronion, 
Over  the  dreary,  wild  waving  water, 
Thunder  afar  is  rolling, 

And  the  snow-white  steeds  of  the  waves  are  springing, 

Which  Boreas  himself  begot 

On  the  beautiful  mares  of  Erichthon 

And  ocean  birds  in  their  fright  are  fluttering, 

Like  shadowy  ghosts  o'er  the  Styx, 

Which  Charon  sent  back  from  his  shadowy  boat. 

Little  ship, — wretched  yet  merry, 

Which  yonder  art  dancing  a  terrible  dance ! 

iEolus  sends  thee,  the  fastest  companions, 

Wildly  they're  playing  the  merriest  dances ; 

The  first  pipes  soft — the  next  blows  loud, 

The  third  growls  out  a  heavy  basso — 

And  the  tottering  sailor  stands  by  the  helm, 

And  looks  incessantly  on  the  compass, 

The  quivering  soul  of  the  ship, 

Lifting  his  hands  in  prayer  to  Heaven — 

0  save  me,  Castor,  giant-like  hero, 

And  thou  who  fight'st  with  fist,  Polydeuces ! 


3. 

THE  SHIPWBECKED. 

Lost  hope  and  lost  love !    All  is  in  ruins ! 

And  I  myself,  like  a  dead  body, 

Which  the  sea  has  thrown  back  in  anger, 

Lie  on  the  sea  beach  ; 

On  the  waste,  barren  sea  beach, 

Before  me  rolleth  a  waste  of  water, 

Behind  me  lies  starvation  and  sorrow, 

And  above  me  go  rolling  the  storm-clouds, 

The  formless,  dark  grey  daughters  of  air, 

Which  from  the  sea,  in  cloudy  buckets, 

Scoop  up  the  water, 

Ever  wearied  lifting  and  lifting, 

And  then  pour  it  again  in  the  sea, 

A  mournful,  wearisome  business, 

And  useless  too  as  this  life  of  mine. 

11* 


—    126  — 


The  waves  are  murm'ring,  the  sea-gulls  screaming, 
Old  recollections  seem  floating  around. 
Long  vanished  visions,  long  faded  pictures 
Torturing,  yet  sweet,  seem  living  once  more  J 

There  lives  a  maid  in  Norland, 

A  lovely  maid,  right  queenly  fair ; 

Her  slender  cypress-like  figure 

Is  clasped  by  a  passionate  snowy- white  robe ; 

The  dusky  ringlet-fulness, 

Like  a  too  happy  night,  comes  pouring 

From  the  lofty  braided-hair  crowned  forehead, 

Twining  all  dreamily  sweet 

Round  the  lovely  snow-pale  features, 

And  from  the  lovely,  snow-pale  features, 

Great  and  wondrous,  gleams  a  dark  eye, 

Like  a  sun  of  jet  black  fire. 

Oh  thou  bright,  black  sun  eye,  how  oft, 

Enraptured  oft,  I  drank  from  thee 

Wild  glances  of  inspiration, 

And  stood  all  quivering,  drunk  with  their  fire — 

And  then  swept  a  smile  all  mild  and  dove-like, 

Round  the  lips  high  mantling,  proud  and  lovely; 

And  the  lips  high  mantling,  proud  and  lovely, 

Breathed  forth  words  as  sweet  as  moonlight, 

Soft  as  the  perfume  of  roses — 

Then  my  soul  rose  up  in  rapture 

And  flew,  like  an  eagle,  high  up  to  heaven  ! 

Hush  !  ye  billows  and  sea-mews  ! 

All  is  long  over,  hope  and  fortune, 

Fortune  and  true  love !    I  lie  on  the  sea  beach, 

A  weary  and  wreck-ruined  man, 

Still  pressing  my  face,  hot  glowing, 

In  the  cold,  wet  sand. 

4 

SUNSET. 

The  beautiful  sun, 

Has  calmly  sunk  down  to  his  rest  in  the  sea ; 
The  wild  rolling  waters  already  are  tinged 


—    127  — 


With  night's  dark  shade, 

Though  still  the  evening  crimson 

Strews  them  with  light,  as  yet  bright  golden, 

And  the  stern  roaring  might  of  the  flood, 

Crowds  to  the  sea-beach  the  snowy  billows, 

All  merrily  quickly  leaping, 

Like  white  woolly  flocks  of  lambkins, 

Which  youthful  shepherds  at  evening,  singing, 

Drive  to  their  homes. 

"  How  fair  is  the  sun  !" 
Thus  spoke,  his  silence  breaking,  my  friend, 
Who  with  me  on  the  sea-beach  loitering 
And  jesting  half,  and  half  in  sorrow, 
Assured  me  that  the  bright  sun  was 
A  lovely  dame,  whom  the  old  ocean  god 
For  "  convenience"  once  had  married. 
And  in  the  day-time  she  wanders  gaily 
Through  the  high  heaven,  purple  arrayed, 
And  all  in  diamonds  gleaming, 
And  all  beloved  and  all  amazing 
To  every  worldly  being : 
And  every  worldly  being  rejoicing, 
With  warmth  and  splendor  from  her  glances ; 
Alas  !  at  evening,  sad  and  unwilling, 
Back  must  she  bend  her  slow  steps 
To  the  dripping  home,  to  the  barren  embrace 
Of  grisly  old  age. 

"  Believe  me," — added  to  this  my  friend, 
And  smiling  and  sighing,  and  smiling  again — 
"  They're  leading  below  there  the  lovingest  life  ! 
For  either  they're  sleeping  or  they  are  scolding, 
Till  high  uproars  above  here  the  sea, 
And  the  fisher  in  watery  roar  can  hear 
How  the  Old  One  his  wife  abuses. — 
"  Bright  round  measure  of  all  things  I 
Wooing  with  radiance ! 
All  the  long  day  shinest  thou  for  other  loves, 
By  night,  to  me,  thou  art  freezing  and  weary." 
At  such  a  stern  curtain  lecture, 


—    128  — 


Of  course  the  Sun-bride  falls  to  weeping, 
Falls  to  weeping  and  wails  her  sorrow, 
And  cries  so  wretchedly,  that  the  Sea  God 
Quickly,  all  desperate  leaps  from  his  bed, 
And  straight  to  the  ocean  surface  conies  rising, 
To  get  to  fresh  air — and  his  senses," 

"Sol  beheld  him,  but  yesterday  night, 
Eising  breast  high  up  from  the  Ocean, 
He  wore  a  long  jacket  of  yellow  flannel, 
And  a  new  night-cap,  white  as  a  lily 
And  a  wrinkled  faded  old  face." 


5. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  OCEANIDES. 

Colder  the  twilight  falls  on  the  Ocean, 

And  lonely,  with  his  own  lonelier  spirit, 

Yon  sits  a  man  on  the  barren  strand, 

And  casts  death-chilling  glances  on  high, 

To  the  wide-spread,  death-chilling  vault  of  heaven, 

And  looks  on  the  broad,  wide  wavering  sea ; 

And  over  the  broad,  white-wavering  sea, 

Like  air-borne  sailors,  his  sighs  go  sweeping, 

Returning  once  more  sad-joyful, 

But  to  discover,  firm  fastened,  the  heart, 

Wherein  they  fain  would  anchor — 

And  he  groans  so  loud,  that  the  snow-white  sea-mews 

Frightened  up  from  their  nests  in  the  sand  heaps, 

Around  in  white  clouds  flutter, 

And  he  speaks  unto  them  the  while,  and  laughing : 

"Ye  black  legged  sea-fowl, 

With  your  white  pinions  o'er  the  sea  fluttering, 

With  crooked  dark  bills  drinking  the  sea-water, 

And  rank,^oily  seal-blubber  devouring, 

Your  wild  life  is  bitter,  e'en  as  your  food  is  ! 

While  I  here,  the  fortunate,  taste  only  sweet  things ! 

I've  tasted  the  sweetest  breath  of  roses, 


—    129  — 


Those  nourished  with  moonshine  nightingale  brides, 

I  eat  the  most  delicate  sugar  meringues, 

And  the  sweetest  of  all  I've  tasted  : 

Sweetest  true  love,  and  sweetest  returned  love. 

She  loves  me !  she  loves  me !  the  lovely  maiden ! 

She  now  stands  at  home — perhaps  at  the  window, 

And  looks  through  the  twilight,  afar  on  the  highway, 

And  looks  and  longs  but  for  me— that's  certain, 

All  vainly  she  gazes  around,  still  sighing, 

Then  sighing,  she  walks  adown  in  the  garden, 

Wandering  in  moonlight  and  perfume, 

And  speaks  to  the  sweet  flowers — oft  telling  to  them 

How  I,  the  beloved  one,  deserve  her  love, 

And  am  so  agreeable — that's  certain ! 

In  bed  reposing,  in  slumber,  in  dreams, 

There  flits  round  her,  happy,  my  well-loved  form, 

E'en  in  the  morning  at  breakfast ; 

On  the  glittering  bread  and  butter, 

She  sees  my  dear  features  sweet  smiling, 

And  she  eats  it  up  out  of  love — that's  certain  !" 

Thus  he's  boasting  and  boasting, 

And  'mid  it  all,  loud  scream  the  sea-gulls, 

Like  old  and  ironical  tittering ; 

The  evening  vapours  are  climbing  up  ; 

From  clouds  of  violet — strange  and  dream-like, 

Out  there  peeps  the  grass-yellow  moon 

High  are  roaring  the  ocean  billows, 

And  deep  from  the  high  up-roaring  sea, 

All  sadly  as  whispering  breezes, 

Sounds  the  lay  of  the  Oceanides, 

The  beautiful,  kind-hearted  water-fairies, 

And  clearest  among  them,  the  sweet  notes  are  ringing 

Of  the  silver-footed  bride  of  Peleus, 

And  they  sigh  and  are  singing : 

"  Oh  fool,  thou  fool !  thou  weak  boasting  fool ! 

Thou  tortured  with  sorrows  ! 

Vanished  and  lost  are  the  hopes  thou  hast  cherished, 
The  light  sporting  babes  of  thy  heart's  love  ; 
And  ah !  thy  heart,  thy  Niobe  heart 


—   130  — 


By  grief  turned  to  stone ! 

And  in  thy  wild  brain  'tis  night, 

And  through  it  is  darting  the  lightning  of  madness, 

And  thou  boastest  from  anguish  1 

Oh  fool !  thou  fool,  thou  weak  boasting  fool ! 

Stiff-necked  art  thou,  like  thy  first  parent, 

The  noblest  of  Titans,  who  from  the  immortals 

Stole  heavenly  fire  and  on  Man  bestowed  it, 

And  eagle-tortured,  to  rocks  firm  fettered, 

Defied  Olympus,  enduring  and  groaning, 

Until  we  heard  it  deep  down  in  the  sea, 

And  gathered  around  him  with  songs  consoling. 

Oh  fool,  thou  fool!  thou  weak  boasting  fooll 

Thou  who  art  weaker  by  far  than  he, 

Had'st  thou  thy  reason  thou'dst  honour  th'  immortals, 

And  bear  with  more  patience  the  burden  of  suffering, 

And  bear  it  in  patience,  in  silence,  in  sorrow 

Till  even  Atlas  his  patience  had  lost, 

And  the  heavy  world  from  his  shoulders  was  thrown 

Into  endless  night. 

So  rang  the  deep  song  of  the  Oceanides, 

The  lovely  compassionate  water-spirits, 

Until  the  wild  waters  had  drowned  their  music — 

Behind  the  dark  clouds  down  sank  the  moon, 

Tired  night  was  yawning, 

And  I  sat  yet  awhile  in  darkness  sad  weeping. 


6. 

THE  GODS  OF  GREECE. 

Thou  full  blooming  Moon !  In  thy  soft  light, 
Like  wavering  gold,  bright  shines  the  sea ; 
Like  morn's  first  radiance,  yet  dimly  enchanted, 
It  lies  o'er  the  broad,  wide,  strand's  horizon ; 
And  in  the  pure  blue  heaven  all  starless 
The  snowy  clouds  are  sweeping, 
Like  giant  towering  shapes  of  immortals 
Of  white  gleaming  marble. 


—    131  — 


Nay,  but  I  err ;  no  clouds  are  those  yonder ! 
Those  are  in  person  the  great  gods  of  Hellas, 
Who  once  so  joyously  governed  the  world, 
But  now  long  banished,  long  perished, 
As  monstrous  terrible  spectres  are  sweeping 
O'er  the  face  of  the  midnight  heaven. 

Gazing  and  strangely  bewildered  I  see 
The  airy  Pantheon, 
The  awfully  silent,  fearful  far  sweeping 
Giant-like  spectres. 

He  there  is  Kronion,  the  King  of  Heaven, 

Snow-white  are  the  locks  of  his  head, 

The  far-famed  locks  which  send  throbs  through  Olympus, 

He  holds  in  his  hand  the  extinguished  bolt, 

Sorrow  and  suffering  sit  stern  on  his  brow, 

Yet  still  it  hath  ever  its  ancient  pride. 

Once  there  were  lordlier  ages,  oh  Zeus, 

When  thou  did'st  revel  divinely, 

Mid  fair  youths  and  maidens  and  hecatombs  rich ! 

But  e'en  the  immortals  may  not  reign  forever, 

The  younger  still  banish  the  elder, 

As  thou,  thyself,  didst  banish  thy  father, 

And  drove  from  their  kingdom  thy  Titan  uncles, 

Jupiter  Parricida ! 

Thee  too  I  know  well,  proudest  sorceress  I 

Spite  of  all  thy  fearful  jealousy, 

Though  from  thee  another  thy  sceptre  hath  taken 

And  thou  art  no  more  the  Queen  of  Heaven, 

And  thy  wondrous  eyes  seem  frozen, 

And  even  thy  lily-white  arms  are  powerless, 

And  never  more  falls  thy  vengeance 

On  the  god-impregnated  maiden, 

And  the  wonder  working  son  of  Jove, 

Well  too  I  know  thee,  Pallas  Athene  ! 

With  shield  and  wisdom  still  then  could'st  not 

Avert  the  downfall  of  immortals  ! 

Thee,  too,  I  know  now,  yes  thee,  Aphrodite  1 

Once  the  Golden  One — now  the  Silver  One  ! 

E'en  yet  the  charm  of  thy  girdle  adorns  thee ; 

But  I  shudder  at  heart  before  thy  beauty, 


—    132  — 


And  could  I  enjoy  thy  burning  embraces 
Like  the  ancient  heroes,  I'd  perish  with  fear ; 
As  the  goddess  of  corpses  thou  seem'st  to  me, 
Venus  Libitina ! 

No  more  in  fond  love  looks  upon  thee, 

There,  the  terrible  Ares. 

Sadly  now  gazeth  Fhcebus  Apollo, 

The  youthful.    His  lyre  sounds  no  more, 

"Which  once  rang  with  joy  at  the  feasts  of  the  gods. 

And  sadder  still  looks  Hephaistos, 

And,  truly  the  limping  one  !  nevermore 

Will  he  fill  the  office  of  Hebe, 

And  busily  pour  out,  in  the  Assembly, 

The  sweet  tasting  nectar. — And  long  hath  been  silent 

The  ne'er  to  be  silenced  laugh  of  immortals. 

Gods  of  old  time,  I  never  have  loved  ye  ! 

For  the  Greeks  did  never  chime  with  my  spirit, 

And  e'en  the  Komans  I  hate  at  heart, 

But  holy  compassion  and  shudd'ring  pity 

Streams  through  my  soul, 

As  I  now  gaze  upon  ye,  yonder 

Gods  long  neglected, 

Death-like,  night-wandering  shadows ; 

Weak  as  clouds  which  the  wind  hath  scattered — 

And  when  I  remember  how  weak  aud  windy 

The  Gods  now  are  who  o'er  you  triumphed, 

The  new  and  the  sorrowful  gods  who  now  rule, 

The  joy-destroyers  in  lamb-robes  of  meekness — 

Then  there  comes  o'er  me  gloomiest  rage, 

Fain  would  I  shatter  the  modern  temples, 

And  battle  for  ye,  ye  ancient  immortals, 

For  ye  and  your  good  old  ambrosial  right. 

And  before  your  lofty  altars, 

Once  more  erected,  with  incense  sweet  smoking, 

Would,  I  once  more,  kneeling,  adoring, 

And  praying,  uplift  my  arms  to  you. 

For  constantly,  ye  old  immortals, 
Was  it  your  custom,  in  mortal  battles, 
Ever  to  lend  your  aid  to  the  conqueror, 
Therefore  is  man  now  far  nobler  than  ye, 


—    133  — 


And  in  the  contest  I  now  take  part 

"With  the  cause  of  the  conquered  immortals. 
*  ■*  * 

'Twas  thus  I  spoke,  and  blushes  were  visible 

Over  the  cold  white  serial  figures, 

Gazing  upon  me  like  dying  ones, 

With  pain  transfigured,  and  quickly  vanished. 

The  moon  concealed  her  features 

Behind  a  cloud,  which  darkly  went  sweeping : 

Loudly  the  wild  sea  rose  foaming, 

And  the  beautiful  calm  beaming  stars,  victorious 

Shone  out  o'er  Heaven. 


7. 

QUESTIONING. 

By  the  sea,  by  the  dreary,  darkening  sea 
Stands  a  youthful  man, 

His  heart  all  sorrowing,  his  head  all  doubting, 
And  with  gloomiest  accent  he  questions  the  billows : 

"  Oh  solve  me  Life's  riddle  I  pray  ye, 

The  torturing  ancient  enigma, 

O'er  which  full  many  a  brain  hath  long  puzzled, 

Old  heads  in  hieroglyph  marked  mitres, 

Heads  in  turbans  and  caps  mediaeval, 

Wig-covered  pates  and  a  thousand  others, 

Sweating,  wearying  heads  of  mortals — 

Tell  me  what  signifies  Man  ? 

Whence  came  he  hither  ?    Where  goes  he  hence? 

Who  dwells  there  on  high  in  the  radiant  planets  ?" 

The  billows  are  murmuring  Jheir  murmur  unceasing. 
Wild  blows  the  wind — the  dark  clouds  are  fleeting, 
The  stars  are  still  gleaming,  so  calmly  and  cold," 
And  a  fool  awaits  an  answer. 


12 


—    134  — 


8. 

THE  PHCENIX. 

A  bird  from  the  far  west  his  way  came  winging ; 

He  eastward  flies 

To  the  beautiful  land  of  gardens, 

Where  softest  perfumes  are  breathing  and  growing, 

And  palm  trees  rustle  and  brooks  are  rippling— 

And  flying,  sings  the  bird  so  wondrous : 

"  She  loves  him — she  loves  him  ! 
She  bears  his  form  in  her  little  bosom, 
And  wears  it  sweetly  and  secretly  hidden,  • 
Yet  she  knows  it  not  yet ! 
Only  in  dreams  he  comes  to  her, 
And  she  prays  and  weeps,  his  hand  oft  kissing, 
His  name  often  calling, 
And  calling  she  wakens,  and  lies  in  terror, 
And  presses  in  wonder  those  eyes,  soft  gleaming — 
She  loves  him  !  she  loves  him  ! 


9. 

ECHO. 

I  leaned  on  the  mast ;  on  the  lofty  ship's  deck 

Standing,  I  heard  the  sweet  song  of  a  bird. 

Like  steeds  of  dark  green,  with  their  manes  of  bright  silver, 

Sprang  up  the  white  and  wild  curling  billows. 

Like  trains  of  wild  swans,  went  sailing  past  us, 

With  shimmering  canvass,  the  Helgolanders, 

The  daring  nomacles  of  the  North  Sea. 

Over  my  head,  in  the  infinite  blue, 

Went  sailing  a  snowy  white  cloud. 

Bright  flamed  the  eternal  sun-orb, 

The  rose  of  heaven,  the  fire  blossoming, 

Who,  joyful,  mirrored  his  rays  in  ocean 

Till  heaven  and  sea,  and  my  heart  besides 

Rang  back  with  the  echo : 

She  loves  him  !  she  loves  him  ! 


—    135  — 


10. 

SEA  SICKNESS. 

The  dark  grey  vapors  of  evening 
Are  sinking  deeper  adown  on  the  sea, 
Which  rises  darkling  to  their  embrace, 
And  'twixt  them  on  drives  the  ship. 

Sea-sick,  I  sit  as  before  by  the  main-mast, 

Making  reflections  of  personal  nature, 

World  ancient,  gray  colored  examinings, 

Which  Father  Lot  first  made  of  old, 

When  he  too  much  enjoyed  life's  good  things, 

And  afterwards  found  that  he  felt  unwell. 

Meanwhile  I  think,  too,  on  other  old  legends : 

How  cross  and  scrip-bearing  pilgrims,  long  perished, 

In  stormiest  voyage,  the  comforting  image 

Of  the  blessed  Virgin,  confiding,  kissed ; 

How  knights,  when  sea-sick,  in  dole  and  sorrow, 

The  little  glove  of  some  fair  lady 

Pressed  to  their  lips,  and  soon  were  calm  ; — 

But  here  I'm  sitting  and  munching  in  sorrow 

A  wretched  herring,  the  salted  refreshment 

Of  drunken-sickness  and  heavy  sorrow  ! 

While  I'm  groaning,  lo !  our  ship 

Fights  the  wild  and  terrible  flood  ; 

As  a  capering  war-horse  now  she  bounds, 

Leaping  on  high,  till  the  rudder  cracks, 

Now  darting  head-forward  adown  again. 

To  the  sad,  howling,  wat'ry  gulf ; 

Then,  as  if  all  careless — weak  with  love — 

It  seems  as  though  'twould  slumber 

On  the  gloomy  breast  of  the  giantess  Ocean, 

Who  onward  comes  foaming — 

When  sudden,  a  mighty  sea  water-fall, 

In  snowy  foam-curls  together  rolls, 

Wetting  all,  and  me,  with  foam. 

This  tottering,  and  trembling,  and  shaking, 

Is  not  to  be  borne  with  ! 

But  vainly  sweep  my  glances  and  seek 


—    136  — 


The  German  coast  line.    Alas  !  but  water, 
And  once  again  water — wild,  waving  water ! 

As  the  winter  wanderer,  at  evening,  oft  longs 
For  one  good  warm  and  comforting  cup  of  tea, 
Even  so  now  longs  my  heart  for  thee, 
My  German  Fatherland ! 

May,  for  all  time,  thy  lovely  valleys  be  covered 

AVith  madness,  hussars,  and  wretched  verses, 

And  little  tracts,  luke-warm  and  watery; 

May,  from  this  time  forth,  all  thy  zebras 

Be  nourished  with  roses  instead  of  thistles ; 

And  may  for  ever,  too,  thy  noble  monkeys 

In  a  garb  of  leisure  go  grandly  strutting, 

And  think  themselves  better  than  all  the  other 

Low-plodding,  stupid,  mechanical  cattle. 

May,  for  all  time,  too,  thy  snail-like  assemblies 

Still  deem  themselves  immortal 

Because  they  so  slowly  go  creeping ; 

And  may  they  daily  go  on  deciding 

If  the  maggots  of  cheeses  belong  to  the  cheese ; 

And  long  be  lost  in  deliberation, 

How  breeds  of  Egyptian  sheep  may  be  bettered, 

That  their  wool  may  be  somewhat  improved, 

And  the  shepherd  may  shear  them  like  any  other, 

Sans  difference — 

Ever,  too,  may  injustice  and  folly 

Be  all  thy  mantle,  0  Germany ! 

And  yet  I  am  longing  for  thee: 

For  e'en  at  the  worst  thou  art  solid  land. 


iL 

IN  POET 

Happy  the  man  who  is  safe  in  his  haven, 
And  has  left  far  behind  the  sea  and  its  sorrows, 
And  now  so  warm  and  calmly  sits 
In  the  cosy  Town  Cellar  of  Bremen. 

Oh,  how  the  world,  so  home-like  and  sweetly, 
In  the  wine-cup  is  mirrored  again, 


—    137  — 


And  how  the  wavering  microcosmas 
Sunnily  flows  through  the  thirstiest  heart ! 
All  things  I  behold  in  the  glass — 
Ancient  and  modern  histories  by  myriads, 
Grecian  and  Ottoman,  Hegel  and  Gans, 
Forests  of  citron  and  watches  patrolling, 
Berlin,  and  Schilda,  and  Tunis,  and  Hamburg, 
But  above  all  the  form  of  the  loved  one, 
An  angel's  head  on  a  Rhine-wine-gold  ground. 

Oh,  how  fair  !  how  fair  art  thou,  beloved ! 

Thou  art  as  fair  as  roses ! 

Not  like  the  roses  of  Shiraz, 

The  brides  of  the  nightingale  sung  by  old  Hafiz  1 

Not  like  the  rose  of  Sharon, 

Holily  blushing  and  hallowed  by  prophets ; 

Thou  art  like  the  rose  in  the  cellar  of  Bremen !  * 

That  is  the  Rose  of  Roses, 

The  older  she  grows,  the  sweeter  she  bloometh, 

And  her  heavenly  perfume  hath  made  me  happy, 

It  hath  inspired  me — hath  made  me  tipsy, 

And  were  I  not  held  by  the  shoulder  fast, 

By  the  Town  Cellar  Master  of  Bremen, 

I  had  gone  rolling  over ! 

The  noble  soul !  we  sat  there  together, 

And  drank  too,  like  brothers, 

Discoursing  of  lofty,  mysterious  matters, 

Sighing  and  sinking  in  solemn  embraces, 

He  made  me  a  convert  to  Love's  holy  doctrine ; 

I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  bitterest  enemy, 

And  I  forgave  the  worst  of  all  poets, 

As  I  myself  some  day  shall  be  forgiven; 

Till  piously  weeping,  before  me 

Silently  opened  the  gates  of  redemption, 


*In  the  Rathskeller— Council  Cellar  or  Town  Hall  Cellar— of  Bremen,  there  is  kept  a 
celebrated  tun  called  The  Rose  containing  wine  three  hundred  years  old.  Around  it 
are  the  Twelve  Apostles,  or  hogsheads  filled  with  wine  of  a  lesser  age.  When  a  bottle 
is  drawn  from  the  Rose  it  is  supplied  from  one  of  the  Apostles,  and  by  this  arrange- 
ment the  contents  of  the  Rose  are  thus  kept  up  to  tbe  requisite  standard  of  antiquity. 
Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  writings  of  Hauff  will  remember  the  exquisite  and 
genial  sketch  entitled.  "  A  Fantasy  in  the  Rathskeller  of  Bremen." — Note  oy  Translator. 

12* 


—   138  — 


Where  the  twelve  Apostles,  the  holy  barrels, 
Preach  in  silence  and  yet  so  distinctly 
Unto  all  nations. 
Those  are  the  sort 

Invisible  outwards  in  sound  oaken  garments, 
Yet  they  within  are  lovely  and  radiant, 
For  all  the  proudest  Levites  of  the  Temple, 
And  the  lifeguardsmen  and  courtiers  of  Herod, 
Glittering  in  gold  and  arrayed  in  rich  purple 
Still  I  have  ever  maintained 
That  not  amid  common,  vulgar  people, 
No — but  in  the  elite  of  society, 
Constantly  lived  the  monarch  of  Heaven. 

Hallelujah !    How  sweetly  wave  round  me 

The  palm  trees  of  Bath-El ! 

How  sweet  breathe  the  myrrh  shrubs  of  Hebron ! 

How  J ordan  ripples  and  tumbles  with  gladness, 

And  my  own  immortal  spirit  tumbleth, 

And  I  tumble  with  it,  and  tumbling 

I'm  helped  up  the  stairway  into  broad  daylight, 

By  the  brave  Council  Cellar  Master  of  Bremen ! 

Thou  brave  Council  Cellar  Master  of  Bremen ! 
Seest  thou  upon  the  roofs  of  the  houses  sitting 
Lovely,  tipsy  angels  sweetly  singing ; 
The  radiant  sun,  too,  yonder  in  Heaven 
Is  only  a  crimson,  wine-colored  proboscis, 
Which  the  World-Soul  protrudeth. 
And  round  the  red  nose  of  the  World-Soul 
Circles  the  whole  of  the  tipsified  world. 


12. 

EPILOGUE. 

As  in  the  meadow  the  wheat  is  growing, 
So,  sprouting  and  waving  in  mortal  souls, 
Thoughts  are  growing. 
Aye — but  the  soft  inspirations  of  poets 
Are  like  the  blue  and  crimson  flowrets, 
Blossoming  amid  them. 


—   139  — 


Blue  and  crimson  blossoms ! 

The  ill  natured  reaper  rejects  ye  as  useless, 

Block-headed  simpletons  scorn  ye  while  threshing, 

Even  the  penniless  wanderer, 

Who,  by  your  sight  is  made  glad  and  inspired, 

Shaketh  his  head, 

And  calls  ye  weeds,  though  lovely. 

Only  the  fair  peasant  maiden, 

The  one  who  twineth  garlands, 

Doth  honor  you  and  plucks  you, 

And  decks  with  you  her  lovely  tresses, 

And  when  thus  adorned,  to  the  dance  hastens, 

Where  the  pipe  and  the  viol  are  merrily  pealing ; 

Or  to  the  tranquil  beech  tree, 

Where  the  voice  of  the  loved  one  more  pleasantly  sounds, 
Than  the  pipe  or  the  viol. 


PART  THIRD. 


(1826.) 


WKITTEN  ON  THE  ISLAND  NOKDERNEY. 

 The  natives  are  generally  poor  as  crows,  and  live  by  their 

fishery,  which  begins  in  the  stormy  month  of  October.  Many  of 
these  islanders  also  serve  as  sailors  in  foreign  merchant  vessels,  and 
remain  for  years  absent  from  home,  without  being  heard  from  by  their 
friends.  Not  unfrequently  they  perish  at  sea.  I  have  met  upon  the 
island  poor  women,  all  the  male  members  of  whose  families  had  thus 
been  lost — a  thing  which  is  likely  enough  to  occur,  as  the  father  gen- 
erally accompanies  his  sons  on  a  voyage. 

Maritime  life  has  for  these  men  an  indescribable  attraction,  and  yet 
I  believe  that  they  are  happiest  when  at  home.  Though  they  may 
have  arrived  in  their  ships  at  those  southern  lands,  where  the  sun 
shines  brighter,  and  the  moon  glows  with  more  romance,  still  all  the 
flowers  there  do  not  calm  their  hearts,  and  in  the  perfumed  home  of 
Spring  they  still  long  for  their  sand  island,  for  their  little  huts,  and 
for  the  blazing  hearth,  where  their  loved  ones,  well  protected  in  wool- 
len jackets,  crouch,  drinking  a  tea  which  differs  from  sea-water  only 
in  name,  and  gabble  a  jargon  of  which  the  real  marvel  is  that  they 
can  understand  it  themselves. 

That  which  connects  these  men  so  firmly  and  contentedly,  is  not  so 
much  the  inner  mystical  sentiment  of  love,  as  that  of  custom — that 
mutual "  through-and-above-living"  according  to  nature,  or  that  of  social 
directness.  They  enjoy  an  equal  elevation  of  soul,  or,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  an  equal  depression,  from  which  result  the  same  needs  and 
the  same  desires,  the  same  experiences  and  the  same  reflections. 
Consequently,  they  more  readily  understand  each  other,  and  sit 
socially  together  by  the  fire  in  their  little  huts,  crowd  up  together 
when  it  is  cold,  see  the  thoughts  in  each  other's  eyes  before  a  word  is 
spoken,  all  the  conventional  signs  of  daily  life  are  readily  intelligible, 
and  by  a  single  sound,  or  a  single  gesture,  they  excite  in  each  other 
that  laughter,  those  tears,  or  that  pious  feeling,  which  we  could 

(141) 


not  awaken  in  our  like  without  long  preliminary  explanations, 

expectorations  and  declamations.  For  at  bottom  we  live  spir- 
itually alone,  and  owing  to  peculiar  methods  of  education,  and  peculiar 
reading,  we  have  each  formed  a  different  individual  character.  Each 
of  us,  spiritually  masked,  thinks,  feels  and  acts  differently  from  his 
fellow,  and  misunderstandings  are  so  frequent,  that  even  in  roomy 
houses,  life  in  common  costs,  an  effort,  and  we  are  everywhere  limited, 
everywhere  strange,  and  everywhere,  so  to  speak,  in  a  strange  land. 

Entire  races  have  not  unfrequently  lived  for  ages,  as  equal  in  every 
particular,  in  thought  and  feeling,  as  these  islanders.  The  Romish 
Church  in  the  Middle  Ages  seemed  to  have  desired  to  bring  about  a 
similar  condition  in  the  corporate  members  of  all  Europe,  and  conse- 
quently took  under  its  protection  every  attribute  of  life,  every  power 
and  developement — in  short,  the  entire  physical  and  moral  man.  It 
cannot  be  denied  that  much  tranquil  happiness  was  thereby  effected, 
that  life  bloomed  more  warmly  and  inly,  and  that  Art,  calmly  devel- 
oping itself,  unfolded  that  splendor  at  which  we  are  even  yet  amazed, 
and  which,  with  all  our  dashing  science,  we  cannot  imitate.  But  the 
soul  hath  its  eternal  rights,  it  will  not  be  darkened  by  statutes,  nor 
lullabied  by  the  music  of  bells — it  broke  from  its  prison,  shattering 
the  iron  leading-strings  by  which  Mother  Church  trained  it  along — 
it  rushed  in  a  delirium  of  joyous  liberty  over  the  whole  earth,  climbed 
the  highest  mountain  peaks,  sang  and  shouted  for  wantonness,  re- 
called ancient  doubts,  pored  over  the  wonders  of  day,  and  counted 
the  stars  by  night.  We  know  not  as  yet  the  number  of  the  stars, 
we  have  not  yet  solved  the  enigmas  of  the  marvels  of  the  day,  the 
ancient  doubts  have  grown  mighty  in  our  souls — are  we  happier  than 
we  were  before  ?  We  know  that  this  question,  as  far  as  the  multi- 
tude are  concerned,  cannot  be  lightly  assented  to  ;  but  we  know,  also, 
that  the  happiness  which  we  owe  to  a  lie  is  no  true  happiness,  and 
that  we,  in  the  few  and  far-between  moments  of  a  god-like  condition, 
experience  a  higher  dignity  of  soul  and  more  happiness  than  in  the 
long,  onward,  vegetating  life  of  the  gloomy  faith  of  a  coal-burner. 

In  every  respect  that  church  government  was  a  tyranny  of  the 
worst  sort.  Who  can  be  bail  for  those  good  intentions,  as  I  have 
described  them  ?  Who  can  prove,  indeed,  that  evil  intentions  were 
not  mingled  with  them  ?  Rome  would  always  rule,  and  when  her 
legions  fell,  she  sent  dogmas  into  the  provinces.  Like  a  giant  spider 
she  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  Latin  world,  and  spun  over  it  her  endless 
web.  Generations  of  people  lived  beneath  it  a  peaceful  life,  for  they 
believed  that  to  be  a  heaven  near  them,  which  was  only  a  Roman 


—    143  — 


web.  Only  the  higher  striving  spirits,  who  saw  through  its  meshes, 
felt  themselves  bound  down  and  wretched,  and  when  they  strove  to 
break  away,  the  crafty  spider  easily  caught  them,  and  sucked  the 
bold  blood  from  their  hearts  ; — and  was  not  the  dreamy  happiness  of 
the  purblind  multitude  purchased  too  dearly  by  such  blood  ?^  The 
days  of  spiritual  serfdom  are  over ;  weak  with  age,  the  old  cross 
spider  sits  between  the  broken  pillars  o#f  her  Colisseum,  ever  spin- 
ning the  same  old  web — but  it  is  weak  and  brittle,  and  catches  only 
butterflies  and  bats,  and  no  longer  the  wild  eagles  of  the  North. 

It  is  right  laughable  to  think  that  just  as  I  was  in  the  mood  to 
expand  with  such  good  will  over  the  intentions  of  the  Eoman  Church, 
the  accustomed  Protestant  feeling  which  ever  ascribes  to  her,  the 
worst,  suddenly  seized  upon  me,  and  it  is  this  very  difference  of 
opinion  in  myself,  which  again  supplies  me  with  an  illustration  of  the 
incongruities  of  the  manner  of  thinking  prevalent  in  these  days. 
What  we  yesterday  admired,  we  hate  to-day,  and  to-morrow,  perhaps, 
we  ridicule  it  with  perfect  indifference. 

Considered  from  a  certain  point,  all  is  equally  great  or  small,  and 
I  thus  recurred  to  the  great  European  revolutions  of  ages,  while  I 
looked  at  the  little  life  of  our  poor  islanders.  Even  tliey,  stand  on 
the  margin  of  such  a  new  age,  and  their  old  unity  of  soul,  and  sim- 
plicity will  be  disturbed  by  the  success  of  the  fashionable  watering- 
place  recently  established  here,  inasmuch  as  they  every  day  pick  up 
from  the  guests  some  new  bits  of  knowledge,  which  they  must  find 
difficult  to  reconcile  with  their  ancient  mode  of  life.  If  they  stand  of 
an  evening  before  the  lighted  windows  of  the  conversation-hall,  and 
behold  within,  the  conduct  of  the  gentlemen  and  ladies,  the  meaning 
glances,  the  longing  grimaces,  the  voluptuous  dances,  the  full  con- 
tented feasting,  the  avaricious  gambling,  et  cetera,  it  is  morally  certain 
that  evil  results  must  ensue,  which  can  never  be  counterbalanced  by  the 
money  which  they  derive  from  this  bathing  establishment.  This  money 
will  never  suffice  for  the  consuming  new  wants  which  they  conceive,  and 
from  this  must  result  disturbances  in  life,  evil  enticements,  and  greater 
sorrows.  When  but  a  boy,  I  always  experienced  a  burning  desire  when 
beautiful  freshly  baked  tarts,  which  I  could  not  obtain,  were  carried  past 
me,  reeking  in  delicious  fragrance  and  exposed  to  view.  Later  in 
life  I  was  goaded  by  the  same  feeling,  when  I  beheld  fashionably  un- 
dressed,  beautiful  ladies  walk  by  me,  and  I  often  reflect  that  the  poor 
islanders,  who  have  hitherto  lived  in  such  a  state  of  blessed  innocence, 
have  here  unusual  opportunities  for  similar  sensations,  and  that  it 
would  be  well  if  the  proprietors  of  the  beautiful  tarts,  and  the  ladies 


—    144  — 


in  question,  would  cover  them  up  a  little  more  carefully.  These 
numerous  and  exposed  delicacies,  on  which  the  natives  can  only  feed 
with  their  eyes,  must  terribly  whet  their  appetites,  and  if  the  poor 
female-islanders,  when  enceinte,  conceive  all  sorts  of  sweet-baked 
fancies,  and  even  go  so  far  as  to  bring  forth  children  which  strongly 
resemble  the  aristocratic  guests,  the  matter  is  easily  enough  under- 
stood. I  do  not  wish  to  be  here  understood  as  hinting  at  any  immo- 
dest or  immoral  connexions.  The  virtue  of  the  islanderesses  is 
amply  protected  by  their  ugliness,  and  still  more  so  by  an  abominably 
fishy  odour  which,  to  me  at  least,  is  insupportable.  Should,  in  fact, 
children  with  fashionable-boarder  faces  be  here  born  into  the  world, 
I  should  much  prefer  to  recognize  in  it  a  psycological  phenomenon, 
and  explain  it  by  those  material-mystical  laws,  which  Goethe  has  so 
beautifully  developed  in  his  Elective  Affinities. 

The  number  of  enigmatical  appearances  in  nature,  which  can  be 
explained  by  those  laws,  is  truly  astonishing.  When  I,  last  year, 
owing  to  a  storm  at  sea,  was  cast  away  on  another  East  Frisian 
island,  I  there  saw  hanging,  in  a  boatman's  hut,  an  indifferent  engrav- 
ing, bearing  the  title,  la  tentation  du  viellard,  and  representing  an  old 
man  disturbed  in  his  study  by  the  appearance  of  a  woman,  who, 
naked  to  the  hips,  rose  from  a  cloud ;  and  singular  to  relate,  the 
boatman's  daughter  had  exactly  the  same  wanton  pug-dog  face 
as  the  woman  in  the  picture ! — To  cite  another  example  :  in  the 
house  of  a  money-changer,  whose  wife  attended  to  the  business, 
and  carefully  examined  coins  from  morning  till  night,  I  found  that 
the  children  had  in  their  countenances  a  startling  likeness  to  all 
the  greatest  monarchs  of  Europe,  and  when  they  were  all  assem- 
bled, fighting  and  quarreling,  I  could  almost  fancy  that  I  beheld  a 
congress  of  sovereigns ! 

On  this  account,  the  impression  on  coins  is  for  politicians  a  matter 
of  no  small  importance.  For  as  people  so  often  love  money  from 
their  very  hearts,  and  doubtlessly  gaze  lovingly  on  it,  their  children 
often  receive  the  likeness  of  their  prince  impressed  thereon,  and  thus 
the  poor  prince  is  suspected  of  being  in  sober  sadness,  the  father  of  his 
subjects.  The  Bourbons  had  good  reasons  for  melting  down  the  Napo- 
leons oVor — not  wishing  to  behold  any  longer  so  many  Napoleon  heads 
among  their  subjects.  Prussia  has  carried  it  further  than  any  other 
in  her  specie  politics,  for  they  there  understand  by  a  judicious  inter- 
mixture of  copper  to  so  make  their  new  small  change,  and  changes, 
that  a  blush  very  soon  appears  on  the  cheeks  of  the  monarch.  In 
consequence,  the  children  in  Prussia  have  a  far  healthier  appearance 


—    145  — 

than  of  old,  and  it  is  a  real  pleasure  to  gaze  upon  their  blooming  little 
silver  groschen  faces. 

I  have,  while  pointing  out  the  destruction  of  morals  with  which 
the  islanders  are  threatened,  made  no  mention  of  their  spiritual 
defence,  the  Church.  How  this  really  appears,  is  beyond  my  powers 
of  description,  not  having  been  in  it.  The  Lord  knows  I  am  a  good 
Christian,  and  even  often  get  so  far  as  to  intend  to  make  a  call  at 
his  house,  but  by  some  mishap  I  am  invariably  hindered  in  my  good 
intentions.  Generally  this  is  done  by  some  long  winded  gentleman 
who  holds  me  by  the  button  in  the  street,  and  even  if  I  get  to  the 
gate  of  the  temple,  some  jesting,  irreverent  thought  comes  over  me 
and  then  I  regard  it  as  sinful  to  enter.  Last  Sunday  something  of 
the  sort  happened,  when  just  before  the  door  of  the  Church  there 
came  into  my  head  an  extract  from  Goethe's  Faust,  where  the  hero 
passing  with  Mephistopheles  by  a  cross,  asks  the  latter, 

"Mephisto,  art  in  haste? 
Why  cast'st  thou  at  the  cross  adown  thy  glances?" 

To  which  Mephistopheles  replies, 

u  I  know  right  well  it  shows  a  wretched  taste, 
But  crosses  never  ranked  among  my  fancies." 

These  verses,  as  I  remember,  are  not  printed  in  any  edition  of 
Faust,  and  only  the  late  Hofrath  Moritz,  who  had  read  them  in 
Goethe's  manuscript,  gave  them  to  the  world  in  his  "Philip  Eeiser," 
a  long  out-of-print  romance,  which  contains  the  history  of  the  author, 
or  rather  the  history  of  several  hundred  dollars  which  his  pocket  did 
not  contain,  and  owing  to  which  his  entire  life  became  an  array  of 
self-denials  and  economies,  while  his  desires  were  anything  but  pre- 
suming— namely,  to  go  to  Weimar  and  become  a  servant  in  the 
house  of  the  author  of  "Werther.  His  only  desire  in  life  was  to 
live  in  the  vicinity  of  the  man,  who  of  all  mankind,  had  made  the 
deepest  impression  on  his  soul. 

Wonderful !  even  then,  Goethe  had  awoke  such  inspiration,  and 
yet  it  seems  that  "  our  third  after-growing  race,"  is  first  in  condition 
to  appreciate  his  true  greatness. 

But  this  race  has  also  brought  forth  men,  into  whose  hearts  only 
foul  water  trickles,  and  who  would  fain  dam  up  in  others  the  springs 
of  fresh  healthy  life-blood ;  men  whose  powers  of  enjoyment  are 
extinguished,  who  slander  life,  and  who  would  render  all  the  beauty 
and  glory  of  this  world  disgusting  to  others,  representing  it  as  a  bait 
which  the  Evil  One  has  placed  here  simply  to  tempt  us,  just  as  a 
cunning  house-wife  leaves  during  her  absence  the  sugar  bowl  exposed, 

13 


-    146  — 


with  every  lump  duly  counted,  that  she  may  test  the  honesty  of  the 
maid.  These  men  have  assembled  a  virtuous  mob  around  them, 
preaching  to  their  adherents  a  crusade  against  the  Great  Heathen 
und  against  his  naked  images  of  the  gods,  which  they  would  gladly 
replace  with  their  disguised  dumb  devils. 

Masks  and  disguises  are  their  highest  aim,  the  naked  and  divine 
is  fatal  to  them,  and  a  Satyr  has  always  good  reasons  for  donning 
pantaloons  and  persuading  Apollo  to  do  the  same.  People  then 
call  him  a  moral  man,  and  know  not  that  in  the  CLAUREN-smiles  of  a 
disguised  Satyr  there  is  more  which  is  really  repulsive  than  in  the 
entire  nudity  of  a  Wolfgang-Apollo,  and  that  in  those  very  times 
when  men  wore  puff-breeches,  which  required  in  make  sixty  yards  of 
cloth,  morals  were  no  better  than  at  present. 

But  will  not  the  ladies  be  offended  at  my  saying  breeches  instead 
of  pantaloons  ? — Oh  the  refined  feelings  of  ladies  !  In  the  end  only 
eunuchs  will  dare  to  write  for  them,  and  their  spiritual  servants  in 
the  West,  must  be  as  harmless  as  their  body  servants  in  the  East. 

Here  a  fragment  from  Berthold's  diary  comes  into  my  head. 

"  If  we  only  reflect  on  it,  we  are  all  naked  under  our  clothes," 

said  Doctor  M  .  to  a  lady  who  wTas  offended  by  a  rather  cynical 

remark  to  which  he  had  given  utterance. 

The  Hanoverian  nobility  is  altogether  discontented  with  Goethe, 
asserting  that  he  disseminates  irreligion,  and  that  this  may  easily 
bring  forth  false  political  views, — in  fine,  that  the  people  must  by 
means  of  the  old  faith  be  led  back  to  their  ancient  modesty  and 
moderation.  I  have  also  recently  heard  much  discussion  of  the 
question  whether  Goethe  were  greater  than  Schiller.  But  lately 
I  stood  behind  the  chair  of  a  lady,  from  whose  very  back  at  least 
sixty-four  descents  wrere  evident,  and  heard  on  the  Goethe  and 
Schiller  theme  a  wrarm  discourse  between  her  and  two  Hanoverian 
nobles,  whose  origin  was  depicted  on  the  Zodiac  of  Dendera.  One 
of  them,  a  long  lean  youth,  full  of  quicksilver,  and  who  looked  like 
a  barometer,  praised  the  virtue  and  purity  of  Schiller,  while  the 
other,  also  a  long  up-sprouted  young  man,  lisped  verses  from  the 
"  Dignity  of  Woman,"  smiling  meanwhile  as  sweetly  as  a  donkey 
who  has  stuck  his  head  into  a  pitcher  of  molasses,  and  delightedly 
licks  his  lips.  Both  of  the  youths  confirmed  their  assertions  with 
the  refrain,  "But  he  is  still  greater.  He  is  really  greater  in  fact. 
He  is  the  greater,  I  assure  you  upon  my  honor  he  is  greater."  The 
lady  was  so  amiable  as  to  bring  me  too  into  this  aesthetic  conversa- 
tion and  inquire  :  "Doctor,  what  do  you  think  of  Goethe?"    I,  how- 


—    147  — 


ever,  crossed  ray  arms  on  my  breast,  bowed  my  head  as  a  believer 
and  said  :  La  illah  ill  allah  wamohammed  rasul  allah  ! 

The  lady  had,  without  knowing  it,  put  the  shrewdest  of  questions. 
It  is  not  possible  to  directly  inquire  of  a  man — "  What  thinkest  thou 
of  Heaven  and  Earth  ?  what  are  thy  views  of  Man  and  Human  Life  ? 
art  thou  a  reasonable  being  or  a  poor  dumb  devil  ?"  Yet  all  these 
delicate  queries  lie  in  the  by  no  means  insidious  question :  "  What 
do  you  think  of  Goethe  ?"  For  while  Goethe's  works  lie  before  our 
eyes,  we  can  easily  compare  the  judgment  which  another  pronounces 
with  our  own,  and  thus  obtain  an  accurate  standard  whereby  to 
measure  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  Thus  has  he  unconsciously 
passed  his  own  sentence.  But,  as  Goethe  himself,  like  a  common 
world  thus  lies  open  to  the  observation  of  all,  and  gives  us  opportu- 
nities to  learn  mankind  ;  so  can  we  in  turn  best  learn  to  know  him 
by  his  own  judgment  of  objects  which  are  exposed  to  all,  and  on 
which  the  greatest  minds  have  expressed  opinions.  In  this  respect 
I  would  prefer  to  point  to  Goethe's  Italian  Journey,  as  we  are  all 
familiar  with  the  country  in  question,  either  from  personal  experience 
or  from  what  we  have  learned  from  others.  Thus  we  can  remark 
how  every  writer  views  it  with  subjective  eyes,  the  one  with  displeased 
looks  which  beheld  only  the  worst,  another  with  the  inspired  eyes  of 
Corinna,  seeing  everywhere  the  glorious,  while  Goethe  with  his  clear 
Greek  glances  sees  all  things,  the  dark  and  the  light,  colours  nothing 
with  his  individual  feelings,  and  pictures  the  land  and  its  people  in 
the  true  outlines  and  true  colours  in  which  God  clothed  it. 

This  is  a  merit  of  Goethe's  which  will  not  be  appreciated  until 
later  times,  for  we,  as  we  are  nearly  all  invalids,  remain  too  firm  in 
our  sickly  ragged  romantic  feelings  which  we  have  brought  together 
from  all  lands  and  ages,  to  be  able  to  see  plainly  how  sound,  how 
uniform,  and  how  plastic  Goethe  displays  himself  in  his  works.  He 
himself  as  little  remarks  it, — in  his  naive  unconsciousness  of  his  own 
ability,  he  wonders  when  "  a  reflection  on  present  things"  or  "  objec- 
tive thought"  is  ascribed  to  him,  and  while  in  his  autobiography  he 
seeks  to  supply  us  with  a  critical  aid  to  comprehend  his  works,  he 
still  gives  us  no  measure  of  judgment,  but  only  new  facts  w^reby  to 
judge  him.  Which  is  all  natural  enough,  for  no  bird  can  fly  over 
itself. 

Later  times  will  also  in  addition  to  this  ability  of  plastic  percep- 
tion, feeling  and  thinking,  discover  much  in  Goethe  of  which  we  have 
as  yet  no  shadow  of  an  idea.  The  works  of  the  soul  are  immutably 
firm,  but  criticism  is  somewhat  volatile ;  she  is  born  of  the  views  of 


—    148  — 


the  age,  is  significant  only  for  it,  and  if  she  herself  is  not  of  a  sect 
which  involves  artistic  value,  as  for  example  that  of  Schlegel,  she  passes 
with  her  time,  to  the  grave.  Every  age  when  it  gets  new  ideas,  gets 
with  them  new  eyes,  and  sees  much  that  is  new  in  the  old  efforts  of 
mind  which  have  preceded  it.  A  Schubarth  now  sees  in  the  Iliad, 
something  else  and  something  more  than  all  the  Alexandrians ;  and 
critics  will  yet  come,  who  will  see  more  than  a  Schübarth  in  Goethe. 

And  so  I  finally  prattled  with  myself,  to  Goethe  !  But  such 
digressions  are  natural  enough,  when,  as  on  this  island,  the  roar  of  the 
ocean  thrills  our  ears  and  tunes  the  soul  according  to  its  will. 

There  is  a  strong  north-east  wind  blowing,  and  the  witches  have 
once  again  mischief  in  their  heads.  There  are  many  strange  legends 
current  here  of  witches,  who  know  how  to  conjure  storms,— for  on 
this,  as  on  all  northern  islands,  there  is  much  superstition.  The  sea- 
folks  declare  that  certain  islands  are  secretly  governed  by  peculiar 
witches,  and  that  when  mishaps  occur  to  vessels  passing  them,  it  is  to 
be  attributed  entirely  to  the  evil  will  of  these  mysterious  guardians. 
"While  I,  last  year,  was  some  time  at  sea,  the  steersman  of  our  ship 
told  me,  one  day,  that  witches  were  remarkably  powerful  on  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  and  sought  to  delay  every  ship  which  sailed  past  during 
the  day,  that  it  might  then  by  night  be  dashed  to_pieces  on  the 
rocks,  or  driven  ashore.  At  such  times  the  witches  are  heard  whiz- 
zing so  sharply  through  the  air,  and  howling  so  loudly  around  the  ship, 
that  the  Klabotermann  can  with  difficulty  withstand  them.  "When  I 
asked  who  the  Klabotermann  was,  the  sailor  answered  very  earnestly, 
that  he  was  the  good  invisible  guardian  angel  of  the  ship,  who  takes 
care  lest  ill  luck  befall  honest  and  orderly  skippers,  who  look  after 
everything  themselves,  and  provide  a  place  for  everything.  The 
brave  steersman  assured  me,  in  a  more  confidential  tone,  that  I  could 
easily  hear  this  spirit  in  the  hold  of  the  vessel,  where  he  willingly 
busied  himself  with  stowing  away  the  cargo  more  securely,  and  that 
this  was  the  cause  of  the  creaking  of  the  barrels  and  the  boxes  when 
the  sea  rolled  high,  as  well  as  of  the  groaning  of  the  planks  and  beams. 
It  was  also  true,  that  the  Klabotermann  often  hammered  without,  on 
the  ship^  and  this  was  a  warning  to  the  carpenter  to  repair  some 
unsound  spot  which  had  been  neglected.  But  his  favorite  fancy  is  to 
sit  on  the  top-sail,  as  a  sign  that  a  good  wind  blows  or  will  blow  ere 
long.  In  answer  to  my  question  if  he  were  ever  seen,  he  replied, 
"  No — that  he  was  never  seen,  and  that  no  man  wished  to  see  him, 
for  he  only  showed  himself  when  there  was  no  hope  of  being  saved." 
The  steersman  could  not  vouch  from  his  own  experience,  but  he  had 


—   149  — 


heard  others  say,  that  the  Klabolermann  was  often  heard  giving 
orders  from  the  topsail  to  his  subordinate  spirits ;  and  that  when  the 
storm  became  too  powerful  for  him,  and  utter  destruction  was 
unavoidable,  he  invariably  took  a  place  at  the  helm — showing  him- 
self for  the  first  time — and  then  breaking  it,  vanished.  Those  who 
beheld  him  at  this  terrible  moment  were  always  engulphed  the 
moment  after. 

The  captain  who  had  listened  with  me  to  this  narration,  smiled  more 
graciously  than  I  could  have  anticipated  from  his  rough  countenance, 
hardened  by  wind  and  weather,  and  afterwards  told  me  that  fifty  or 
a  hundred  years  ago,  the  faith  in  the  Klabotermann  was  so  strongly 
impressed  on  the  sailor's  minds,  that  at  meals  they  always  reserved 
for  him  the  best  morsels,  and  Jhat  on  some  vessels  this  custom  was 
still  observed. 

I  often  walk  alone  on  the  beach,  thinking  over  these  marvellous 
sea  legends.  The  most  attractive  of  them  all  is  that  of  the  Flying 
Dutchman,  who  is  seen  in  a  storm  with  all  sail  set,  and  who  occa- 
sionally sends  out  a  boat  to  ships,  giving  them  letters  to  carry  home, 
but  which  no  one  can  deliver,  as  they  are  all  addressed  to  persons 
long  since  dead.  And  I  often  recall  the  sweet  old  story  of  the  fisher 
boy,  who  one  night  listened  securely  on  the  beach  to  the  music  of  the 
Water-Nixies,  and  afterwards  wandered  through  the  world,  casting 
all  into  enchanted  raptures  who  listened  to  the  melody  of  the  sea- 
nymph  waltz.  This  legend  was  once  told  me  by  a  dear  friend,  as  we 
were  at  a  concert  in  Berlin.  I  once  heard  just  such  an  air  played  by 
the  wondrous  boy,  Felix  Mendelsohn  Bartholdi. 

There  is  an  altogether  peculiar  charm  in  excursions  around  the 
island.  But  the  weather  must  be  fair,  the  clouds  must  assume  strange 
forms,  we  must  lie  on  our  backs,  gazing  into  heaven — and  at  the  same 
time  have  a  piece  of  heaven  in  our  hearts.  Then  the  waves  wili 
murmur  all  manner  of  strange  things,  all  manner  of  words  in  which 
sweet  memories  flutter,  all  manner  of  names  which,  like  sweet  associ- 
ations, re-echo  in  the  soul — "  Evelina  S"  Then  ships  come  sailing 
by,  and  we  greet  them  as  if  we  could  see  them  again  every  clay.  But 
at  night  there  is  something  uncanny  and  mysterious  in  thus  meeting 
strange  ships  at  sea  ;  and  we  imagine  that  our  best  friends,  whom  we 
have  not  seen  for  years,  sail  silently  by,  and  that  we  arc  losing  them 
for  ever. 

I  love  the  sea,  as  my  own  soul. 

I  often  feel  as  if  the  sea  were  really  my  own  soul  itself,  and  as 
there  are  in  it  hidden  plants,  which  only  rise  at  the  instant  in 
13* 


—    150  — 

which  they  bloom  above  the  water,  and  sink  again  at  the  instant  in 
which  they  fade ;  so  from  time  to  time  there  rise  wondrous  flower 
forms  from  the  depths  of  my  soul,  and  breathe  forth  perfume,  and 
gleam,  and  vanish — "  Evelina  !" 

They  say  that  on  a  spot  not  far  from  this  island,  where  there  is 
now  nothing  but  water,  there  once  stood  the  fairest  villages  and 
towns,  which  were  all  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  the  sea,  and  that  in 
clear  weather,  sailors  yet  see  in  the  ocean,  far  below,  the  gleam- 
ing pinnacles  of  church  spires,  and  that  many  have  often  heard,  early 
on  quiet  Sabbath  mornings,  the  chime  of  their  bells.  The  story  is 
true,  for  the  sea  is  my  own  soul. 

"There  a  wondrous  world  to  ocean  given, 
Ever  hides  from  daylight's  searching  gleam  ; 
But  it  shines  at  night  like  rays  from  heaven, 
In  the  magic  mirror  of  my  dream." 

Awakening  then  I  hear  the  echoing  tones  of  bells  and  the  song  of 
holy  voices — "  Evelina  1" 

If  we  go  walking  on  the  strand,  the  ships  sailing  by  present  a 
beautiful  sight.  When  in  full  sail  they  lodk  like  great  swans.  But 
this  is  particularly  beautiful  when  the  sun  sets  behind  some  passing 
ship,  and  this  seems  to  be  rayed  round  as  with  a  giant  glory. 

Hunting,  on  this  beach,  is  also  said  to  present  many  very  great 
attractions.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  am  not  particularly  quali- 
fied to  appreciate  its  charms.  A  love  for  the  sublime,  the  beautiful 
and  the  good  is  often  inspired  in  men  by  education,  but  a  love  for 
hunting  lies  in  the  blood.  When  ancestors  in  ages  beyond  recollec- 
tion killed  stags,  the  descendant  still  finds  pleasure  in  this  legitimate 
occupation.  But  my  ancestors  did  not  belong  to  the  hunters  so  much 
as  to  the  hunted,  and  the  idea  of  attacking  the  descendants  of  those 
who  were  our  comrades  in  misery  goes  against  my  grain.  Yes,  I 
know  right  well,  from  experience,  and  from  moral  conviction,  that  it 
would  be  much  easier  for  me  to  let  fly  at  a  hunter  who  wishes  that 
those  times  were  again  here  when  human  beings  were  a  higher  class 
of  game.  God  be  praised  !  those  days  are  over  !  If  such  hunters 
now  wish  to  chase  a  man,  they  must  pay  him  for  it,  as  was  the  case 
with  a  runner  whom  I  saw  two  years  ago  in  Böttingen.  The  poor 
being  had  already  run  himself  weary  in  the  heat  of  a  sultry  Sunday, 
when  some  Hanoverian  youths,  who  there  studied  humaniora,  offered 
him  a  few  dollars  if  he  would  run  the  whole  course  over  again.  The 


—    151  - 


man  did  it.  He  was  deathly  pale,  and  wore  a  red  jacket,  and  close 
behind  him,  in  the  whirling  dust,  galloped  the  well-fed  noble  youths, 
on  high  horses,  whose  hoofs  occasionally  struck  the  goaded,  gasping 
oeing, — and  he  was  a  man  ! 

For  the  sake  of  the  experiment,  for  I  must  accustom  my  blood  to 
a  better  state,  I  went  hunting  yesterday.  I  shot  at  a  few  sea-gulls 
which  flew  too  confidently  around,  and  could  not  of  course  know  that 
I  was  a  bad  shot.  I  did  not  wish  to  shoot  them,  but  only  to  warn 
them  from  going  another  time  so  near  persons  with  loaded  guns ;  but 
my  gun  shot  "  wrong,"  and  I  had  the  bad  luck  to  kill  a  young  gull. 
It  was  well  that  it  was  not  an  old  one,  for  what  would  then  have  be- 
come of  the  poor  little  gulls  which  as  yet  unfledged  lie  in  their  sand- 
nests  on  the  great  downs,  and  which,  without  their  mother,  must 
starve  to  death.  Before  I  went  out  I  had  a  presentiment  that  some- 
thing unfortunate  would  happen,  for  a  hare  run  across  my  path. 

But  I  am  in  an  altogether  strange  mood  when  I  wander  alone  by 
twilight  on  the  strand — behind  me  the  flat  downs,  before  me  the 
waving,  immeasurable  ocean,  and  above  me,  heaven,  like  a  giant 
crystal  dome — for  I  then  appear  to  myself  so  ant-like  small,  and  yet 
my  soul  expands  so  world-wide.  The  lofty  simplicity  of  nature,  as  she 
here  surrounds  me,  at  the  same  time  subdues  and  elevates  my  heart,  and 
indeed,  in  a  higher  degree  than  in  any  other  scene,  however  exalting. 
Never  did  any  dome  as  yet  appear  great  enough  to  me;  my  soul, 
with  its  Titan  prayer,  ever  strove  higher  than  the  Gothic  pillars,  and 
would  ever  fain  pierce  the  vaulted  roof.  On  the  peaks  of  the  Ross- 
trappe,  at  first  sight,  the  colossal  rocks,  in  their  bold  groupings,  had 
a  tolerably  imposing  effect  on  me  ;  but  this  impression  did  not  long 
endure,  my  soul  was  only  startled,  not  subdued,  and  those  monstrous 
masses  of  stone  became,  little  by  little,  smaller  in  my  eyes,  and  finally 
they  merely  appeared  like  the  little  ruins  of  a  giant  palace,  in  which, 
perhaps,  my  soul  would  have  found  itself  comfortably  at  home. 

Ridiculous  as  it  may  sound,  I  cannot  conceal  it,  but  the  dispropor- 
tion between  soul  and  body  torments  me  not  a  little,  and  here  on  the 
sea,  in  the  sublimest  natural  scenery,  it  becomes  very  significant,  and 
the  metempsychosis  is  often  the  subject  of  my  reflection.  Who 
knows  the  divine  irony  which  is  accustomed  to  bring  forth  all  manner 
of  contradictions  between  soul  and  body?  Who  knows  in  what 
tailor's  body  the  soul  of  Plato  now  dwells,  and  in  what  schoolmas- 
ter the  soul  of  CiESAR  maybe  found?  Who  knows  if  the  soul  of 
Gregory  VII.  may  not  sit  in  the  body  of  the  Great  Turk,  and  feel 
itself,  amid  the  caressing  hands  of  a  thousand  women,  more  comfort- 


—    152  — 


able  than  of  old  in  its  purple  ccelibate's  cowl  ?  On  the  other  hand, 
how  many  true  Moslem  souls,  of  the  days  of  Ali,  may,  perhaps,  be 
now  found  among  our  anti-Hellenic  statesmen !  The  souls  of  the 
two  thieves  who  were  crucified  by  the  Saviour's  side,  now  hide,  per- 
haps, in  fat  Consistorial  bodies,  and  glow  with  zeal  for  orthodox  doc- 
trine, The  soul  of  Ghengis-khan  lives,  it  may  be,  in  some  literary 
reviewer,  who  daily,  without  knowing  it,  sabres  down  the  souls  of  his 
truest  Baschkirs  and  Calmucks,  in  a  critical  journal !  Who  knows  ! 
who  knows !  The  soul  of  Pythagoras  hath  travelled,  mayhap,  into 
some  poor  candidate  for  a  University  degree,  and  who  is  plucked  at 
examination,  because  he  cannot  explain  the  Pythagorean  doctrines  ; 
while  in  his  examiners  dwell  the  souls  of  those  oxen  which  Pytha- 
goras once  offered  to  the  immortal  gods  for  joy  at  discovering  the 
doctrines  in  question.  The  Hindoos  are  not  so  stupid  as  our  mis- 
sionaries think.  They  honour  animals  for  the  human  souls  which 
they  suppose  dwell  in  them,  and  if  they  found  hospitals  for  invalid 
monkies,  after  the  manner  of  our  academies,  nothing  is  more  likely 
than  that  in  those  monkies  dwell  the  souls  of  great  scholars,  since  it 
is  evident  enough  that  among  us,  in  many  great  scholars  are  only 
apish  souls ! 

But  who  can  look  with  the  omniscience  of  the  past,  from  above, 
on  the  deeds  of  mortals.  When  I,  by  night,  wander  by  the  sea,  listen- 
ing to  the  song  of  the  waves,  and  every  manner  of  presentiment  and 
of  memory  awakes  in  me,  then  it  seems  as  though  I  had  once  heard  the 
like  from  above,  and  had  fallen,  through  tottering  terror,  to  earth  ;  it 
seems  too  as  though  my  eyes  had  been  so  telescopically  keen  that  I 
could  see  the  stars  wandering  as  large  as  life  in  Heaven,  and  had  been 
dazzled  by  all  their  whirling  splendor ; — then  as  if  from  the  depth  of 
a  millennium,  there  come  all  sorts  of  strange  thoughts  into  my  soul, 
thoughts  of  wisdom  old  as  the  world,  but  so  obscure  that  I  cannot 
surmise  what  they  mean  ;  only  this  much  I  know  that  all  our  cunning, 
knowledge,  effort,  and  production,  must  to  some  higher  spirit  seem  as 
little  and  valueless  as  those  spiders  seemed  to  me  which  I  have  so 
often  seen  in  the  library  of  Göttingen.  There  they  sat,  so  busily 
weaving,  on  the  folios  of  the  World's  History, looking  so  philosophically 
confident  on  the  scene  around  them,  and  they  had  so  exactly  the  pedant  ic 
obscurity  of  Göttingen,  and  seemed  so  proud  of  their  mathematical 
knowledge — of  their  contributions  to  Art — of  their  solitary  reflec- 
tions— and  yet  they  knew  nothing  of  all  the  wonders  which  were  in 
the  book  on  which  they  were  born,  on  which  they  had  passed  their 
lives,  nnd  on  which  they  must  die,  if  not  disturbed  by  the  prying  Doctor 


—   153  — 


L — .  And  who  is  the  prying  Doctor  L —  ?  His  soul  once  dwelt  in 
just  such  a  spider  and  now  he  guards  the  folios  on  which  he  once  sat, 
— and  if  he  reads  them  he  never  learns  their  true  contents. 

What  may  have  happened  on  the  ground  where  I  now  walk  ?  A 
Conrector  who  was  bathing  here,  asserted  that  it  was  in  this  place,  that 
the  religious  rites  of  Hertha,  or  more  correctly  speaking,  of  Forsete 
were  once  celebrated  —  those  rites  of  which  Tacitus  speaks  so 
mysteriously.  Let  us  only  trust  that  the  reporter  from  whom 
Tacitus  picked  up  the  intelligence,  did  not  err  and  mistake  a 
bathing  wagon  for  the  sacred  vehicle  of  the  goddess. 

In  the  year  1819,  I  attended  in  Bonn,  in  one  and  the  same  season, 
four  courses  of  lectures  on  German  antiquities,  from  the  remotest 
times.  The  first  of  these  was  the  history  of  the  German  tongue  by 
Schlegel  who  for  three  months  developed  the  most  old  fashioned 
hypotheses  on  the  origin  of  the  Teutonic  race ;  2d.  the  Germania  of 
Tacitus  by  Arxdt,  who  sought  in  the  old  German  forests  for  those 
virtues  which  he  misses  in  the  saloons  of  the  present  day ;  3d.  Ger- 
man National  Law,  by  Hüllmanx,  whose  historical  views  are  the 
least  vague  of  those  current,  and  4th.  Primitive  German  History,  by 
Eadloff,  who  at  the  end  of  the  half  year  had  got  no  further  than 
the  time  of  Sesostris.  In  those  days  the  legend  of  the  ancient  Hertha 
may  have  interested  me  more  than  at  present.  I  did  not  at  all  admit 
that  she  dwelt  in  Rügen,  and  preferred  to  believe  that  it  was  on  an 
East  Frisian  island.  A  young  savant  always  likes  to  have  his  own 
private  Irypothesis.  But  at  any  rate  I  never  supposed  that  I  should 
some  day  wander  on  the  shore  of  the  North  Sea,  without  thinking 
of  the  old  Goddess  with  patriotic  enthusiasm.  Such  is  in  fact,  not 
altogether  the  case,  for  I  am  here  thinking  of  goddesses,  only  younger 
and  more  beautiful  ones.  Particularly  when  I  wander  on  the  strand, 
near  those  terrible  spots  where  the  most  beautiful  ladies  have  recently 
been  swimming  like  nymphs.  For  neither  ladies  nor  gentlemen 
bathe  here  under  cover,  but  walk  about  in  the  open  sea.  On  this 
account  the  bathing  places  of  the  two  sexes  are  far  apart,  and  yet 
not  altogether  too  far,  and  he  who  carries  a  good  spy-glass,  can  every 
where  in  this  world  see  many  marvels.  There  is  a  legend  of  the 
island  that  a  modern  Actoeon  in  this  manner  once  beheld  a  bathing 
Diana,  and  wonderful  to  relate,  it  was  not  he,  but  the  husband  of 
the  beauty  who  got  the  horns  ! 

The  bathing-carriages,  those  hackney-coaches  of  the  North  Sea, 
are  here  simply  shoved  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  They  are  gene- 
rally angular  wooden  structures,  covered  with  coarse  stiff  linen- 


—    154  — 


Now,  during  winter,  they  are  ranged  along  the  conversation  hall, 
and  without  doubt,  maintain  among  themselves  as  wooden  and  stiff 
linen-like  conversations  as  the  aristocratic  world  which  not  long  since 
filled  their  place. 

But  when  I  say  the  aristocratic  world,  I  do  not  mean  the  good  citi- 
zens of  East  Friesland,  a  race,  flat  and  tame  as  their  own  sand-hills, 
who  can  neither  pipe  nor  sing,  and  yet  possess  a  talent  worth  any 
trilling  and  nonsense — a  talent  which  ennobles  man,  and  lifts  him  above 
those  windy  souls  of  service,  who  believe  themselves  alone  to  be  noble. 
I  mean  the  talent  for  freedom.  If  the  heart  beats  for  liberty,  that 
beating  is  better  than  any  strokes  conferring  knighthood,  as  the  "  free 
Frisians"  well  know,  and  they  well  deserve  this,  their  national  epithet. 
With  the  exception  of  the  ancient  days  of  chieftainship,  an  aristocracy 
never  predominated  in  East  Friesland  ;  very  few  noble  families  have 
ever  dwelt  there,  and  the  influence  of  the  Hanoverian  nobility  by 
force  and  military  power  as  it  now  spreads  over  the  land,  troubles 
many  a  free  Frisian  heart.  Everywhere  a  love  for  their  earlier 
Prussian  government  is  manifested. 

Yet  I  cannot  unconditionally  agree  with  the  universal  German 
complaint  of  the  pride  of  birth  of  the  Hanoverian  nobility.  The  Ha- 
noverian corps  of  officers  give  least  occasion  for  complaints  of  this 
nature.  It  is  true  that,  as  in  Madagascar,  only  the  nobility  have  the 
right  to  become  butchers,  so  in  days  of  old,  only  the  nobility  in  Hanover 
were  permitted  to  become  soldiers.  But  since,  in  recent  times,  so 
ttiany  citizens  have  distinguished  themselves  in  German  regiments, 
and  risen  to  be  officers,  this  evil  customary  privilege  has  fallen  into 
disuse.  Yes,  the  entire  body  of  the  German  legions  has  contributed 
much  to  soften  all  prejudices,  for  these  men  have  travelled  afar,  and 
out  in  the  world  men  see  many  tilings,  especially  in  England ;  and 
they  have  learned  much,  and  it  is  a  real  pleasure  to  hear  them  talk 
of  Portugal,  Spain,  Sicily,  the  Ionian  Isles,  Ireland,  and  other  dis- 
tant lands  where  they  have  fought,  and  "  seen  full  many  towns,  and 
learned  full  many  manners,"  so  that  we  can  imagine  that  we  are  lis- 
tening to  an  Odessy,  which  alas  will  never  find  its  Homer  !  Among 
these  officers  many  independent  English  customs  have  also  found 
their  way,  which  contrast  more  strikingly  with  the  old  Hanoverian 
manners,  than  we  in  the  rest  of  Germany  would  imagine  ;  as  we  are 
in  the  habit  of  supposing  that  England  has  exercised  great  influ- 
ence over  Hanover.  Through  all  the  land  of  Hanover,  nothing  is  to 
be  seen  but  genealogical  trees,  to  which  horses  are  bound,  so  that 
for  mere  trees,  the  land  itself  is  obscured,  and  with  all  its  horses,  it 


155  — 


never  advances.  No — through  this  Hanoverian  forest  of  nobility, 
there  never  penetrated  a  sun-ray  of  British  freedom,  and  no  tone  of 
British  freedom  was  ever  perceptible  amid  the  neighing  noise  of 
Hanoverian  steeds. 

The  general  complaint  of  Hanoverian  pride  of  birth  is  best 
founded  as  regards  the  hopeful  youth  of  certain  families,  who  either 
rule  or  believe  that  they  really  rule  the  realm.  But  these  noble 
youths  will  soon  lay  aside  this  haughtiness,  or,  more  correctly  speak- 
ing, this  naughtiness,  when  they  too  have  seen  a  little  more  of  the 
world,  or  have  had  the  advantage  of  a  better  education.  It  is  true 
that  they  are  sent  to  Göttingen,  but  they  hang  together,  talking 
about  their  horses,  dogs,  and  ancestry  :  learning  but  little  of  modern 
history,  and  if  they  happen  once  in  a  while  by  chance  to  hear  of  "it, 
their  minds  are  notwithstanding,  stupified  by  the  sight  of  the 
count's  table,"  which,  a  true  indication  of  Göttingen,  is  intended  only 
for  students  of  noble  birth.  Of  a  truth,  if  the  young  Hanoverian 
nobility  were  better  taught,  many  complaints  would  be  obviated. 
But  the  young  become  like  the  old.  The  same  delusion,  as  though 
they  were  the  flowers  of  the  earth,  and  we  others  but  its  grass ;  the 
same  folly,  seeking  to  cover  their  own  worthlessness  with  their  ances- 
tors' merits  ;  the  same  ignorance  of  what  there  may  be  problematic 
in  these  merits,  as  there  are  few  indeed  among  them  who  reflect  that 
princes  seldom  reward  their  most  faithful  and  virtuous  subjects,  but 
very  often  their  panders,  flatterers  and  similar  favorite  rascals  with 
ennobling  grace.  Few  indeed  among  these  nobles  could  say  with 
any  certainty  what  their  ancestors  have  done,  and  they  can  only  show 
their  name  in  Ruxner's  Book  of  Tournaments, — yes,  and  if  they 
could  prove  that  an  ancestor  was  at  the  taking  of  Jerusalem,  then 
ought  they,  before  availing  themselves  of  the  honor,  to  prove  that  their 
ancestor  fought  as  a  knight  should,  that  his  mail  suit  was  not  lined 
with  fear,  and  that  beneath  his  red  cross  beat  an  honest  heart.  Were 
there  no  Iliad,  but  simply  a  list  of  names  of  those  heroes  who  fought 
before  Troy ;  and  if  those  family  names  were  yet  among  us,  how 
wo 'ild  the  descendants  of  Thersites  be  puffed  up  with  pride !  As 
for  fite  purity  of  the  blood,  I  will  say  nothing ;  philosophers  and 
famü  -  footmen  have  doubtless  some  peculiar  thoughts  on  this  sub- 
ject. 

My  fault-finding,  as  already  hinted,  is  based  upon  the  lame  educa- 
tion of  the  Hanoverian  nobility,  and  their  early  impressed  delusion 
as  to  th^  importance  of  certain  idle  forms.  Oh  !  how  often  have  1 
laughed  when  I  remarked  the  importance  attached  to  these  forms ; 


—    156  — 


as  if  it  were  even  a  difficult  matter  to  learn  this  representing,  this 
presenting,  thi3  smiling  without  saying  anything,  this  saying  some- 
thing without  thinking,  and  all  these  noble  arts  which  the  good  plain 
citizen  stare3  at,  as  on  wonders  from  beyond  sea.  and  which  after  all, 
every  French  dancing-master  has  better  and  more  naturally,  than  the 
German  nobleman,  to  whom  they  have  with  weary  pains  been  made 
familiar,  in  the  cub-licking  Lutetia,  and  who,  after  their  importation, 
teaches  them  with  German  thoroughness,  and  German  labor,  to  his 
descendants.  This  reminds  me  of  the  fable  of  the  dancing  bear,  who, 
having  escaped  from  his  master,  rejoined  his  fellow  bears  in  the 
wood,  and  boasted  to  them  of  the  difficulty  of  learning  to  dance,  and 
how  he  himself  excelled  in  the  art,  and  in  fact,  the  poor  brutes  who 
beheld  his  performances,  could  not  withhold  their  admiration.  That 
nation,  as  "Werther  calls  them,  formed  the  aristocratic  world,  which 
here  at  this  watering-place,  shone  on  water  and  land,  and  they  were 
altogether  excellent,  excellent  folks,  and  played  their  parts  well. 

Persons  of  royal  blood  were  also  here,  and  I  must  admit  that  they 
were  more  modest  in  their  address  than  the  lesser  nobility.  Whether 
this  modesty  was  in  the  hearts  of  these  elevated  persons,  or  whether 
they  were  impelled  to  it  by  their  position,  T  will  here  leave  undecided. 
I  assert  this,  however,  only  of  the  German  mediatised  princes.  These 
persons  have  of  late  suffered  great  injustice,  inasmuch  as  they  have 
been  robbed  of  a  sovereignty,  to  which  they  had  as  good  right  as  the 
greater  princes,  unless,  indeed,  any  one  will  assume  that  that  which 
cannot  maintain  itself  by  its  own  power,  has  no  right  to  exist.  But 
for  the  greatly  divided  Germany,  it  was  a  benefit,  that  this  array  of 
sixteen-mo  despots  were  obliged  to  resign  their  power.  It  is  terrible 
when  we  reflect  on  the  number  which  we  poor  Germans  are  obliged 
to  feed  for  although  these  mediatised  princes  no  longer  wield  the 
sceptre,  they  still  wield  knives,  forks,  and  spoons,  and  do  not  eat 
hay,  and  if  they  did,  hay  would  still  be  expensive  enough.  I  imagine 
that  we  shall  eventually  be  freed  by  America  from  this  burden  of 
princes.  For  sooner  or  later  the  presidents  of  those  free  states  will 
be  metamorphosed  into  sovereigns,  and  if  they  need  legitimate  prin- 
cesses for  wives,  thoy  will  be  glad  if  we  give  them  our  blood-royal 
dames,  and  if  they  take  six,  we  will  throw  in  the  seventh  gratis;  and 
by  and  by,  our  princes  may  be  busied  with  their  daughters  in  turn  ; 
for  which  reason  the  mediatised  princes  have  acted  very  shrewdly  in 
retaining  at  least  their  right  of  birth,  and  value  their  family  trees  as 
much  as  the  Arabs  value  the  pedigrees  of  their  horses,  and  indeed, 
with  th<;  same  object,  as  they  well  know  that  Germany  has  been  in 


—   157  — 


all  ages,  the  great  princely  stud  from  which  all  the  reigning  neigh- 
boring families  have  been  supplied  with  mares  and  stallions. 

In  every  watering  place  it  is  an  old  established  customary  privilege, 
that  the  departed  guests  should  be  sharply  criticised  by  those  who 
remain,  and  as  I  am  here  the  last  in  the  house,  I  may  presume  to 
exercise  that  right  to  its  fullest  extent. 

And  it  is  now  so  lonely  in  the  island,  that  I  seem  to  myself  like 
Napoleon  on  St,  Helena,  Only  that  I  have  here  found  something 
entertaining,  which  he  wanted.  For  it  is  with  the  great  Emperor 
himself  with  whom  I  am  now  busied.  A  young  Englishman  recently 
presented  me  with  Maitland's  book,  published  not  long  since,  in 
which  the  mariner  sets  forth  the  way  and  manner  in  which  Napoleon 
gave  himself  up  to  him,  and  deceived  himself  on  the  Bellerophon,  till 
he,  by  command  of  the  British  ministry  was  brought  on  board  the 
Northumberland.  From  this  book  it  appears  clear  as  day,  that  the 
Emperor,  in  a  spirit  of  romantic  confidence  in  British  magnanimity, 
and  to  finally  give  peace  to  the  world,  went  to  the  English  more  as  a 
guest  than  as  a  prisoner.  It  was  an  error  which  no  other  man  would 
have  fallen  into,  and  least  of  all,  a  Wellington.  But  history  will 
declare  that  this  error  was  so  beautiful,  so  elevated,  so  sublime,  that 
it  required  more  true  greatness  of  soul  than  we,  the  rest  of  the  world, 
can  elevate  ourselves  to  in  our  greatest  deeds. 

The  cause  which  has  induced  Captain  Maitland  to  publish  this 
book,  appears  to  be  no  other  than  the  moral  need  of  purification, 
which  every  honorable  man  experiences  who  has  been  entangled  by 
bad  fortune  in  a  piece  of  business  of  a  doubtful  complexion.  The 
book  itself  is  an  invaulable  contribution  to  the  history  of  the  imprison- 
ment of  Napoleon,  as  it  forms  the  last  portion  of  his  life,  singularly 
solves  all  the  enigmas  of  the  earlier  parts,  and  amazes,  reconciles,  and 
purifies  the  mind,  as  the  last  act  of  a  genuine  tragedy  should.  The  cha- 
racteristic differences  of  the  four  principal  writers  who  have  informed 
us  as  to  his  captivity,  and  particularly  as  to  his  manner  and  method 
of  regarding  things,  is  not  distinctly  seen,  save  by  their  comparison. 

Maitland,  the  stern,  cold,  English  sailor,  describes  events  without 
prejudice,  and  as  accurately  as  though  they  were  maritime  occurrences 
to  be  entered  in  a  log-book.  Las  Oasas,  like  an  enthusiastic  cham- 
berlain, lies,  as  he  writes,  in  every  line,  at  the  feet  of  his  Emperor ; 
not  like  a  Russian  slave,  but  like  a  free  Frenchman,  who  involuntarily 
bows  the  knee  to  unheard  of  heroic  greatness  and  to  the  dignity  of 
renown.  O'Meara,  the  physician,  though  born  in  Ireland,  is  still 
altogether  a  Britain,  and  as  such  w7as  once  an  enemy  of  the  Emperor. 

U 


—  158  — 


But  now,  recognising  the  majestic  rights  of  adversity,  he  writes 
boldly,  without  ornament,  and  conscientiously: — almost  in  a  lapidary 
style,  while  we  recognise  not  so  much  a  style  as  a  stiletto  in  the 
pointed,  striking  manner  of  writing  of  the  Italian  Autommarchi,  who 
is  altogether  mentally  intoxicated  with  the  vindictiveness  and  poetry 
of  his  land. 

Both  races,  French  and  English,  gave  from  either  side  a  man  of 
ordinary  powers  of  mind,  uninfluenced  by  the  powers  that  be,  and 
this  jury  has  judged  the  Emperor,  and  sentenced  him  to  live  eternally 
— an  object  of  wonder  and  of  commiseration. 

There  are  many  great  men  who  have  already  walked  in  this  world. 
Here  and  there  we  see  the  gleaming  marks  of  their  footsteps,  and  in 
holy  hours  they  sweep  like  cloudy  forms  before  our  souls ;  but  an 
equally  great  man  sees  his  predecessors  far  more  significantly.  From 
a  single  spark  of  the  traces  of  their  earthly  glory,  he  recognises  their 
most  secret  act,  from  a  single  word  left  behind,  he  penetrates  every 
fold  of  their  hearts,  and  thus  in  a  mystical  brotherhood  live  the  great 
men  of  all  times.  Across  long  centuries  they  bow  to  each  other,  and 
gaze  on  each  other  with  significant  glances,  and  their  eyes  meet  over 
the  graves  of  buried  races  whom  they  have  thrust  aside  between,  and 
they  understand  and  love  each  other.  But  we  little  ones,  who  may 
not  have  such  intimate  intercourse  with  the  great  ones  of  the  past, 
of  whom  we  but  seldom  see  the  traces  and  cloudy  forms,  it  is  of  the 
highest  importance  to  learn  so  much  of  these  great  men,  that  it  will 
be  easy  for  us  to  take  them  distinct,  as  in  life,  into  our  own  souls,  and 
thereby  enlarge  our  minds.  Such  a  man  is  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
AVe  know  more  of  his  life  and  deeds  than  of  the  other  great  ones  of 
this  world,  and  day  by  day  we  learn  still  more  and  more.  We  see 
the  buried  form  divine,  slowly  dug  forth,  and  with  every  spade  full  of 
earth  which  is  removed,  increases  our  joyous  wonder  at  the  symmetry 
and  splendor  of  the  noble  figure  which  is  revealed,  and  the  spiritual 
lightnings  with  which  foes  would  shatter  the  great  statue,  serve  but 
to  light  it  up  more  gloriously.  Such  is  the  case  with  the  assertions 
of  M'me  de  Stael,  who,  with  all  her  bitterness,  says  nothing  more 
than  that  the  Emperor  was  not  a  man  like  other  men,  and  that  his 
soul  could  be  measured  with  no  measure  known  to  us. 

It  is  to  such  a  spirit  that  Kant  alludes,  when  he  says,  that  we  can 
think  to  ourselves  an  understanding,  which,  because  it  is  not  dis- 
cursive like  our  own,  but  intuitive,  goes  from  the  synthetic  universal, 
of  the  observation  of  the  whole,  as  such,  to  the  particular — that  is  to 
say,  from  the  whole  to  a  part.    Yes — Napoleon's  spirit  saw  through 


—    159  — 


that  which  we  learn  by  weary  analytical  reflection,  and  long  deduc- 
tion of  consequences,  and  comprehended  it  in  one  and  the  same 
moment.  Thence  came  his  talent  to  understand  his  age,  to  cajole 
its  spirit  into  never  abusing  him,  and  being  ever  profitable  to 
him. 

But  as  this  spirit  of  the  age  is  not  only  revolutionary,  but  is  formed 
by  the  antagonism  of  both  sides,  the  revolutionary  and  the  counter- 
revolutionary, so  did  Napoleon  act  not  according  to  either  alone,  but 
according  to  the  spirit  of  both  principles,  both  efforts,  which  found  in 
him  their  union,  and  he  accordingly  always  acted  naturally,  simply 
and  greatly ;  never  convulsively  and  harshly — ever  composed  and 
calm.  Therefore  he  never  intrigued  in  details,  and  his  striking  effects 
were  ever  brought  about  by  his  ability  to  comprehend  and  to  bend 
the  masses  to  his  will.  Little  analytical  souls  incline  to  entangled, 
wearisome  intrigues,  while,  on  the  contrary,  synthetic  intuitive  spirits 
understand  in  a  wondrously  genial  manner,  so  to  avail  themselves  of 
the  means  which  are  afforded  them  by  the  present,  as  quickly  to  turn 
them  to  their  own  advantage.  The  former  often  founder,  because  no 
mortal  wisdom  can  foresee  all  the  events  of  life,  and  life's  relations 
are  never  long  permanent ;  the  latter,  on  the  contrary,  the  intuitive 
men,  succeed  most  easily  in  their  designs,  as  they  only  require  an 
accurate  computation  of  that  which  is  at  hand,  and  act  so  quickly, 
that  their  calculations  are  not  miscarried  by  any  ordinary  agitation, 
or  by  any  sudden  unforeseen  changes. 

It  is  a  fortunate  coincidence  that  Napoleon  lived  just  in  an  age 
which  had  a  remarkable  inclination  for  history,  for  research,  and  for 
publication.  Owing  to  this  cause,  thanks  to  the  memoirs  of  cotem- 
poraries,  but  few  particulars  of  Napoleon's  life  have  been  withheld 
from  us,  and  the  number  of  histories  which  represent  him  as  more  or 
less  allied  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  increase  every  day.  On  this 
account  the  announcement  of  such  a  work  by  Scott  awakens  the 
most  anxious  anticipation. 

All  those  who  honor  the  genius  of  Scott  must  tremble  for  him,  for 
such  a  book  may  easily  prove  to  be  the  Moscow  of  a  reputation  which 
he  has  won  with  weary  labor  by  an  array  of  historical  romances, 
which,  more  by  their  subject  than  by  their  poetic  power,  have  moved 
every  heart  in  Europe.  This  theme  is,  however,  not  merely  an  elegiac 
lament  over  Scotland's  legendary  glory,  which  has  been  little  by  little 
banished  by  foreign  manners,  rule,  and  modes  of  thought,  but  the 
greatest  suffering  for  the  loss  of  those  national  peculiarities  which 
perish  in  the  universality  of  modern  civilization — a  grief  which  now 


—    160  — 


causes  the  hearts  of  every  nation  to  throb.  For  national  memories 
lie  deeper  in  man's  heart  than  we  generally  imagine.  Let  any  one 
attempt  to  bury  the  ancient  forms,  and  over  night  the  old  love  blooms 
anew  with  its  flowers.  This  is  not  a  mere  figure  of  speech,  but  a 
fact,  for  when  Bullock,  a  few  years  ago,  dug  up  in  Mexico  an  old 
heathen  stone  image,  he  found,  next  morning,  that  during  the  night 
it  had  been  crowned  with  flowers  ;  although  Spain  had  destroyed  the 
old  Mexican  faith  with  fire  and  sword,  and  though  the  souls  of  the 
natives  had  been  for  three  centuries  digged  about  and  ploughed,  and 
sowed  with  Christianity,  And  such  flowers  as  these  bloom  in  Walter 
Scott's  poems.  These  poems  themselves  awaken  the  old  feeling,  and 
as  once  in  Grenada  men  and  women  ran  with  the  wail  of  desperation 
from  their  houses,  when  the  song  of  the  departure  of  the  Moorish 
king  rang  in  the  streets,  so  that  it  was  prohibited,  on  pain  of  death, 
to  sing  it,  so  hath  the  tone  which  rings  through  Scott's  romance 
thrilled  with  pain  a  whole  world.  This  tone  re-echoes  in  the  hearts 
of  our  nobles,  who  see  their  castles  and  armorial  bearings  in  ruins  ; 
it  rings  again  in  the  hearts  of  our  burghers,  who  have  been  crowded 
from  the  comfortable  narrow  way  of  their  ancestors  by  wide-spread- 
ing, uncongenial  modern  fashion ;  in  Catholic  cathedrals,  whence 
faith  has  fled ;  in  Rabbinic  synagogues,  from  which  even  the  faith- 
ful flee.  It  sounds  over  the  whole  world,  even  into  the  Banian  groves 
of  Hindostan,  where  the  sighing  Brahmin  sees  before  him  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  gods,  the  demolition  of  their  primeval  cosmogony,  and  the 
entire  victory  of  the  Briton. 

But  his  tone — the  mightiest  which  the  Scottish  bard  can  strike 
upon  his  giant  harp — accords  not  with  the  imperial  song  of  Napo- 
leon, the  new  man— the  man  of  modern  times — the  man  in  whom 
this  new  age  mirrors  itself  so  gloriously,  that  we  thereby  are  well 
nigh  dazzled,  and  never  think  meanwhile  of  the  vanished  Fast,  nor 
of  its  faded  splendor.  It  may  well  be  p  re-supposed  that  Scott, 
according  to  his  predilections,  will  seize  upon  the  stable  element 
already  hinted  at,  the  counter-revolutionary  side  of  the  character  of 
Napoleon,  while,  on  the  contrary,  other  writers  will  recognize  in  him 
the  revolutionary  principle.  It  is  from  this  last  side  that  Byron 
would  have  described  him — Byron,  A\*ho  forms  in  every  respect  an 
antithesis  to  Scott,  and  who,  instead  of  lamenting  like  him  the  de- 
struction of  old  forms,  even  feels  himself  vexed  and  bounded  by  those 
which  remain,  and  would  fain  annihilate  them  with  revolutionary 
laughter  and  with  gnashing  of  teeth.  In  this  rage  he  destroys  the 
holiest  flowers  of  life  with  his  melodious  poison,  and  like  a  mad  harle- 


—   161  — 


quin,  strikes  a  dagger  into  his  own  heart,  to  mockingly  sprinkle  with 
the  jetting  black  blood  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  around. 

I  truly  realize  at  this  instant  that  I  am  no  worshipper,  or  at  least 
no  bigotted  admirer  of  Byron.  My  blood  is  not  so  splentically 
black,  my  bitterness  comes  only  from  the  gall-apples  of  my  ink, 
and  if  there  be  poison  in  me  it  is  only  an  anti-poison,  for  those 
snakes  which  lurk  so  threateningly  amid  the  shelter  of  old  cathedrals 
and  castles.  Of  all  great  writers  Byron  is  just  the  one  whose 
writings  excite  in  me  the  least  passion,  while  Scott,  on  the  contrary, 
in  his  every  book,  gladdens,  tranquillizes,  and  strengthens  my  heart. 
Even  his  imitators  please  me,  as  in  such  instances  as  "Willibald 
Alexis,  Broxikowski,  and  Cooper,  the  first  of  whom,  in  the  ironic 
"  Walladmoor,"  approaches  nearest  his  pattern,  and  has  shown  in  a 
later  work  such  a  wealth  of  form  and  of  spirit,  that  he  is  fully  capable 
of  setting  before  our  souls  with  a  poetic  originality  well  worthy  of 
Scott,  a  series  of  historical  novels. 

But  no  true  genius  follows  paths  indicated  to  him,  these  lie 
beyond  all  critical  computation,  so  that  it  may  be  allowed  to  pass  as 
a  harmless  play  of  thought,  if  I  may  express  my  anticipatory  judg- 
ment over  Walter  Scott's  History  of  Napoleon.  Anticipatory 
judgment*  is  here  the  most  comprehensive  expression.  Only  one 
thing  can  be  said  with  certainty,  which  is  that  the  book  will  be  read 
from  its  uprising  even  unto  the  down-setting  thereof,  and  we  Ger- 
mans will  translate  it. 

We  have  also  translated  Segur  Is  it  not  a  pretty  epic  poem  ? 
We  Germans  also  write  epic  poems,  but  their  heroes  only  exist  in 
our  own  heads.  The  heroes  of  the  French  epos,  on  the  contrary,  are 
real  heroes,  who  have  performed  more  doughty  deeds  and  suffered 
far  greater  woes  than  we  in  our  garret  rooms  ever  dreamed  of.  And 
yet  we  have  much  imagination,  and  the  French  but  little.  Perhaps 
on  this  account  the  Lord  helped  them  out  in  another  manner,  for 
they  only  need  truly  relate  what  has  happened  to  them  during  the 
last  thirty  years  to  have  such  a  literature  of  experience  as  no  nation 
and  no  age  ever  yet  brought  forth.  Those  memoirs  of  statesmen, 
soldiers,  and  noble  ladies  which  appear  daily  in  France,  form  a  cycle 
of  legends  in  which  posterity  will  find  material  enough  for  thought 
and  song — a  cycle  in  whose  centre  the  life  of  the  great  Emperor  rises 
like  a  giant  tree.  Segur's  History  of  the  Eussian  Campaign  is  a 
song,  a  French  song  of  the  people,  which  belongs  to  this  legend  cycle 
and  which  in  its  tone  and  matter,  is,  and  will  remain,  like  the  epic 

"  VorurtheiV' — prcejudicium — prejudice — fore-judgment. — Note  by  Translator. 
14* 


—    162  — 


poetry  of  all  ages.    A  heroic  poem  which  from  the  magic  words 

"  freedom  and  equality"  has  shot  up  from  the  soil  of  France,  and  as 
in  a  triumphal  procession,  intoxicated  with  glory  and  led  by  the 
Goddess  Fame  herself,  has  swept  over,  terrified  and  glorified  the 
world.  And  now  at  last  it  dances  clattering  sword-dances  on  the 
ice  fields  of  the  North,  until  they  break  in,  and  the  children  of  fire 
and  of  freedom  perish  by  cold  and  by  the  Slaves. 

Such  a  description  of  the  destruction  of  a  heroic  world  is  the  key 
note  and  material  of  the  epic  poems  of  all  races.  On  the  rocks  of 
Ellora  and  other  Indian  grotto-temples,  there  remain  such  epic  catas- 
trophes, engraved  in  giant  hieroglyphics,  the  key  to  which  must  be 
sought  in  the  Mahabarata.  The  North  too  in  words  not  less  rock- 
like, has  narrated  this  twilight  of  the  gods  in  its  Edda,  the  Nibelungen 
sings  the  same  tragic  destruction,  and  has  in  its  conclusion  a  striking 
similarity  with  Segur's  description  of  the  burning  of  Moscow.  The 
Roland's  Song  of  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles,  which  though  its  words 
have  perished  still  exists  as  a  legend,  and  which  has  recently  been 
raised  again  to  life  by  Immermaxn,  one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  the 
Father  Land,  is  also  the  same  old  song  of  woe.  Even  the  song  of  Troy 
gives  most  gloriously  the  old  theme,  and  yet  it  is  not  grander  or  more 
agonizing  than  that  French  song  of  the  people  in  which  Segur  has 
sung  the  downfall  of  his  hero  world.  Yes,  this  is  a  true  epos,  the 
heroic  youth  of  France  is  the  beautiful  hero  who  early  perishes  as  we 
have  already  seen  in  the  deaths  of  Balder,  Siegfried,  Roland,  and 
Achilles,  who  also  perished  by  ill-fortune  and  treachery ;  and  those 
heroes  whom  we  once  admired  in  the  Iliad  we  find  again  in  the  song  of 
Segur.  We  see  them  counselling,  quarrelling,  and  fighting,  as  once 
of  old  before  the  Skaisch  gate.  If  the  court  of  the  King  of  Naples 
is  somewhat  too  variedly  modern,  still  his  courage  in  battle  and  his 
pride  are  greater  than  those  of  Pelides ;  -a  Hector  in  mildness,  and 
bravery  is  before  us  in  "  Prince  Eugene,  the  knight  so  noble."  Ney 
battles  like  an  Ajax,  Berthier  is  a  Nestor  without  wisdom ;  Davoust, 
Daru,  Caulincourt,  and  others,  possess  the  souls  of  Menelaus,  of 
Odysseus,  of  Diomed — only  the  Emperor  alone  has  not  his  like — in  his 
head  is  the  Olympus  of  the  poem,  and  if  I  compare  him  in  his  heroic 
apparition  to  Agamemnon,  I  do  it  because  a  tragic  end  awaited  him 
with  his  lordly  comrades  in  arms,  and  because  his  Orestes  yet  lives. 

There  is  a  tone  in  Segur's  epos  like  that  in  Scott's  poems  which 
moves  our  hearts.  But  this  tone  does  not  revive  our  love  for  the 
long-vanished  legions  of  olden  time.  It  is  a  tone  wfrich  brings  to  us 
the  present,  and  a  tone  which  inspires  us  with  its  spirit. 


—    163  — 


But  we  Germans  are  genuine  Peter  Schlemihls !  In  later  times 
we  have  seen  much  and  suffered  much — for  example,  having  soldiers 
quartered  on  us,  and  pride  from  our  nobility ;  and  we  have  given  away 
our  best  blood,  for  example,  to  England,  which  has  still  a  considerable 
annual  sum  to  pay  for  shot-off  arms  and  legs,  to  their  former  owners, 
and  we  have  done  so  many  great  things  on  a  small  scale,  that  if  they 
were  reckoned  up  together,  they  would  result  in  the  grandest  deeds 
imaginable,  for  instance,  in  the  Tyrol,  and  we  have  lost  much,  for 
instance,  our  "  greater  shadow,"  the  title  of  the  holy  darling  Eoman 
empire — and  still,  with  all  our  losses,  sacrifices,  self-denials,  misfor- 
fortunes  and  great  deeds,  our  literature  has  not  gained  one  such 
monument  of  renown,  as  rise  daily  among  our  neighbors,  like  immor- 
tal trophies.  Our  Leipzig  Fairs  have  profitted  but  little  by  the 
battle  of  Leipzig.  A  native  of  Gotha,  intends,  as  I  hear,  to  sing 
them  successively  in  epic  form,  but  as  he  has  not  as  yet  determined 
whether  he  belongs  to  the  one  hundred  thousand  souls  of  Hildburg- 
hausen, or  to  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  of  Meiningen,  or  to 
the  one  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  of  Altenburg,  he  cannot  as  yet 
begin  his  epos,  and  must  accordingly  begin  with,  "  Sing,  immortal  souls, 
Hildburghausian  souls,  Meiningian  or  even  Altenburgian  souls,  sing, 
all  the  same,  sing  the  deliverance  of  the  sinful  Germans  !"  This  soul- 
murderer,  and  his  fearful  ruggedness,  allows  no  proud  thought,  and 
still  less,  a  proud  word  to  manifest  itself,  our  brighest  deeds  become 
ridiculous  by  a  stupid  result ;  and  while  we  gloomily  wrap  ourselves 
in  the  purple  mantle  of  German  heroic  blood,  there  comes  a  political 
waggish  knave  and  puts  his  cap  and  bells  on  our  head. 

Nay,  we  must  even  compare  the  literati  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Rhine,  and  of  the  canal,  with  our  bagatelle-literature,  to  comprehend 
the  emptiness  and  insignificance  of  our  bagatelle-life.  And  as  1 
intend  to  subsequently  extend  my  observations  over  this  theme  of 
German  literature-miserere,  I  here  offer  a  merrier  compensation  by 
the  intercalation  of  the  following  Xenia,  which  have  flown  from  the 
pen  of  Imkebmanb,  my  lofty  colleague.  Those  of  congenial  disposi- 
tions will,  without  doubt,  thank  me  for  communicating  these  verses, 
and  with  a  few  exceptions,  which  I  have  indicated  with  stars,  I  will- 
ingly admit  that  they  exnress  my  own  views. 


—    164  — 


THE  POETIC  MAN  OF  LETTERS. 

Cease  thy  laughing,  cease  thy  weeping,  let  the  truth  be  plainly  said, 
When  Hans  Sachs  first  saw  the  daylight,  Weckherlin  just  then 
was  dead. 


"  All  mankind  at  length  must  perish,"  quoth  the  dwarf  with  won- 
drous spirit, 

Ancient  youth, — the  news  you  tell  us  hath  not  novelty  for  merit. 


In  forgotten  old  black  letter,  still  his  author-boots  he's  steeping, 
And  he  eats  poetic  onions  to  inspire  a  livelier  weeping. 


*Spare  old  Luther,  Frank,  I  pray  you,  in  the  comments  which  you 
utter, 

He's  a  fish  which  pleases  better,  plain,  than  with  thy  melted  butter. 

THE  DRAMATIST. 
1. 

*"  To  revenge  me  on  the  public,  tragedies  I'll  write  no  longer?" 
Only  keep  thy  word,  and  then  we'll  let  thee  curse  us  more  and 
stronger. 

2. 

In  a  cavalry-lieutenant,  stinging  spur-like  verse  we  pardon ; 
For  he  orders  phrase  and  feelings,  like  recruits  whom  drills  must 
harden. 

3. 

Were  Melpomene  a  maiden,  tender,  loving  as  a  child, 

I  would  bid  her  marry  this  one — he's  so  trim,  so  neat  and  mild. 

4. 

For  the  sins  on  Earth  committed,  goes  the  soul  of  Kotzebue. 
In  the  body  of  this  monster,  stockingless,  without  a  shoe. 

Thus  to  honor  comes  the  doctrine  which  the  earliest  ages  give, 
That  the  souls  of  the  departed,  afterwards  in  beasts  must  live. 


—    165  — 


ORIENTAL  POETS. 

At  old  Saadi's  imitators  tout  le  monde  just  now  are  wondering : — 
Seems  to  me  the  same  old  story,  if  we  East  or  West  go  blundering. 

Once  there  sang  in  summer  moonlight,  philomel  seu  nightingale, 
Now  the  bulbul  pipes  unto  us,  still  it  seems  the  same  old  tale. 

Of  the  rat-catcher  of  Hameln,  ancient  poet, — you  remind  me ; 
Whistling  eastwards,  while  the  little  singers  follow  close  behind  thee. 

India's  holy  cows  they  honor  for  a  reason  past  all  doubt, 
For  ere  long  in  every  cow-stall  they  will  find  Olympus  out. 

Too  much  fruit  they  ate  in  Shiraz,  where  they  held  their  thievish  revels, 
In  "  Gazelles"  they  cast  it  up  now — wretched  Oriental  devils. 

BELL-TONES. 

See  the  plump  old  pastor  yonder  at  his  door,  with  pride  elate, 
Loudly  singing,  that  the  people  may  adore  him  dressed  in  state. 

And  they  flock  to  gaze  upon  him,  both  the  blind  men  and  the  lame, 
Cramped  and  pectoral  sufferers — with  them  many  a  hysteric  dame. 

Simple  cerate  healeth  nothing,  neither  doth  it  hurt  a  wound, 
Therefore  friends,  in  every  book-shop  simple  cerate  may  be  found. 

If  the  matter  thus  progresses,  till  they  every  priest  adore 

To  old  Mother  Church's  bosom  I'll  go  creeping  back  once  more. 

There  a  single  Pope  they  honor  and  adore  a  prcesens  numen, 
Here  each  one  ordained  as  lumen,  elevates  himself  to  numen. 

*ORBIS  PICTUS. 

If  the  mob  who  spoil  the  world,  had  but  one  neck  and  here  would 
show  it ! 

Oh,  ye  Gods,  a  single  neck  of  wretched  actors,  priests  and  poets ! 

In  the  church  to  look  at  farces  oft  I  linger  of  a  morning, 

In  the  theatre  sit  at  evening,  from  the  sermon  taking  warning. 

E'en  the  Lord  to  me  oft  loses  much  in  influence  and  vigor, 

For  so  many  thousand  people  carve  him  in  their  own  base  figure. 

Public — when  I  please  ye,  then  I  think  myself  a  wretched  weaver, 
But  when  I  can  really  vex  you,  then  it  strengthens  up  my  liver. 


—   166  — 

"How  lie  masters  all  the  language!" — yes  and  makes  us  die  of 
laughter, 

How  he  jumps  and  makes  his  captive  crazily  come  jumping  after ! 

Much  can  I  endure  that's  vexing — one  thing  makes  me  sick  and 

haggard, 

When  I  see  a  nervous  weakling  try  to  play  the  genial  blackguard 

*Once  I  own  that  thou  didst  please  me,  fair  Lucinda's  favors  winning, 
Out  upon  thy  brazen  courtship  !  now  with  Mary  thoud'st  be  sinning ! 

First  in  England,  then  mid  Spaniards — then  where  Brahma's  dark- 
ness scatters, 

Everywhere  the  same  old  story — German  coat  and  shoes  in  tatters. 

When  the  ladies  write,  for  ever  in  their  private  pains  they're  dealing, 
Fausses  couches  and  damaged  virtue — oh,  such  open  hearts  revealing ! 

Let  the  ladies  write — they  please  me — in  one  thing  they  beat  U3 
hollow, 

When  a  dame  takes  "  pen  in  hand,"  we're  sure  no  bad  results  can 
follow. 

Literature  will  soon  resemble  parties  at  a  tea  or  christening, 
Naught  but  lady-gossips  prating,  while  the  little  boys  are  listening. 

Where  I  a  Ghengis-Khan,  oh,  China,  long  in  dust  had'st  thou  been 

From  thy  cursed  tea  came  parties — and  of  them  I'm  slowly  dying. 

All  now  settles  down  in  silence,  o'er  the  Mightiest  peace  is  flowing, 
Calmly  in  his  ledger  entering  what  the  early  age  is  owing. 

Yonder  town  is  full  of  statues,  pictures,  verses,  music's  din : 

At  the  door  stands  Merry  Andrew  with  his  trump  and  cries  come  in. 

Why,  these  verses  ring  most  vilely,  without  measure,  feet  or  form  1 
But  should  literary  Pandours  wear  a  royal  uniform  ? 

Say  how  can  you  use  such  phrases — such  expression  without  blushing, 
We  must  learn  to  use  our  elbows,  when  through  market  crowds  we're 
pushing. 

But  of  old  thou  oft  hast  written  rhymes  both  truly  good  and  great ! 
He  who  mingles  with  the  vulgar  must  expect  a  vulgar  fate. 


IDEAS. 

BOOK  LE  GRAND. 


(  1826.) 


The  mighty  race  of  Oerindur, 
The  pillar  of  our  throne, 
Though  Nature  perish,  will  endure, 
For  ever  and  alone. — Müllner. 

CHAPTER  I. 

She  was  •worthy  of  love,  and  he  loved  her.   He.  however,  was  not  loveahle,  and  she  did 
not  love  him.— Old  Play. 

Madame,  are  you  familiar  with  that  old  play  ?  It  is  an  altogether 
extraordinary  performance — only  a  little  too  melancholy.  I  once 
played  the  leading  part  in  it  myself,  so  that  all  the  ladies  wept  save 
one,  who  did  not  shed  so  much  as  a  single  tear,  and  in  that,  consisted 
the  whole  point  of  the  play — the  real  catastrophe. 

Oh,  that  single  tear  !  it  still  torments  me  in  my  reveries.  When 
the  Devil  desires  to  ruin  my  soul,  he  hums  in  my  ear  a  ballad  of  that 
tear,  which  ne'er  was  wept,  a  deadly  song  with  a  more  deadly  tunc — 
ah  !  such  a  tune  is  only  heard  in  hell ! 

****** 

You  can  readily  form  an  idea  Madame  of  what  life  is  like,  in 
Heaven — the  more  readily,  as  you  are  married.  There  people  amuse 
themselves  altogether  superbly,  every  sort  of  entertainment  is  pro- 
vided, and  one  lives  in  nothing  but  desire  and  its  gratification,  or  as 
the  saying  is,  "like  the  Lord  in  France."  There  they  live  from 
morning  to  night,  and  the  cookery  is  as  good  as  Jagor's,  roast  geese 
fly  around  with  gravy-boats  in  their  bills,  and  feel  flattered  if  any 
one  condescends  to  eat  them  ;  tarts  gleaming  with  butter  grow  wild 
like  sun-flowers,  everywhere  there  are  rivulets  of  bouillon  and  cham- 
pagne, everywhere  trees  on  which  clean  napkins  flutter  wild  in  the 
wind,  and  you  eat  and  wipe  your  lips  and  eat  again  without  injury  to 
the  health.    There  too,  you  sing  psalms,  or  flirt  and  joke  with  the 


—    168  — 


dear  delicate  little  angels,  or  take  a  walk  on  the  green  Hallelujah- 
Meadow,  and  your  white  flowing  garments  fit  so  comfortably,  and 
nothing  disturbs  your  feeling  of  perfect  happiness — no  pain,  no  vexa- 
tion. Nay — when  one  accidentally  treads  on  another's  corns  and 
exclaim,  "excusez!"  the  one  trodden  on  smiles  as  if  glorified,  and 
insists  "  Thy  foot,  brother,  did  not  hurt  in  the  least,  quite  au  con- 
traire— it  only  causes  a  deeper  thrill  of  Heavenly  rapture  to  shoot 
through  my  heart !" 

But  of  Hell,  Madame,  you  have  not  the  faintest  idea.  Of  all  the 
devils  iu  existence,  you  have  probably  made  the  acquaintance  only  of 
Amor,  the  nice  little  Croupier  of  Hell,  who  is  the  smallest  Beelze- 
"  bub"  of  them  all.  And  you  know  him  only  from  Don  Juan,  and 
doubtless  think  that  for  such  a  betrayer  of  female  innocence  Hell  can 
never  be  made  hot  enough,  though  our  praiseworthy  theatre  directors 
shower  down  upon  him  as  much  flame,  fiery  rain,  squibs  and  colo- 
phonium  as  any  Christian  could  desire  to  have  emptied  into  Hell 
itself. 

However,  things  in  Hell  look  much  worse  than  our  theatre  directors 
imagine ; — if  they  did  know  what  is  going  on  there,  they  would 
never  permit  such  stuff  to  be  played  as  they  do.  For  in  Hell  it  is 
infernally  hot,  and  when  I  was  there,  in  the  dog-days,  it  was  past 
endurance.  Madame — you  can  have  no  idea  of  Hell !  We  have  very 
few  official  returns  from  that  place.  Still  it  is  rank  calumny  to  say 
that  down  there  all  the  poor  souls  are  compelled  to  read  all  day  long 
all  the  dull  sermons  which  were  ever  printed  on  earth.  Bad  as  Hell 
is,  it  has  not  quite  come  to  that, — Satan  will  never  invent  such  refine- 
ments of  torture.  On  the  other  hand,  Dante's  description  is  too 
mild — I  may  say,  on  the  whole,  too  poetic.  Hell  appeared  to  me 
like  a  great  town-kitchen,  with  an  endlessly  long  stove,  on  which  were 
placed  three  rows  of  iron  pots,  and  in  these  sat  the  damned,  and  were 
cooked.  In  one  row  were  placed  Christian  sinners,  and,  incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  their  number  was  anything  but  small,  and  the  devils 
poked  the  fire  up  under  them  with  especial  good  will.  In  the  next 
row  were  Jews,  who  continually  screamed  and  cried,  and  were  occa- 
sionally mocked  by  the  fiends,  which  sometimes  seemed  odd  enough — 
as  for  instance,  whes  a  fat,  wheezy  old  pawnbroker  complained  of 
the  heat,  and  a  little  devil  poured  several  buckets  of  cold  water  on 
his  head,  that  he  might  realize  what  a  refreshing  benefit  baptism  was. 
In  the  third  row  sat  the  heathen,  who,  like  the  Jews,  could  take  no 
part  in  salvation,  and  must  burn  forever.  I  heard  one  of  the  latter, 
as  a  square-built,  burly  devil  put  fresh  coals  under  his  kettle,  cry  out 


—    169  — 


from  his  pot — "  Spare  me  !  I  was  once  Socrates,  the  wisest  of  mor- 
tals— I  taught  Truth  and  Justice,  and  sacrificed  my  life  for  Virtue." 
But  the  clumsy,  stupid  devil  went  on  with  his  work,  and  grumbled — 
"  Oh,  shut  up,  there !  All  heathens  must  burn,  and  we  can't  make 
an  exception  for  the  sake  of  a  single  man."  I  assure  you,  Madame, 
the  heat  was  terrible,  with  such  a  screaming,  sighing,  groaning,  croak- 
ing, crying,  quacking,  cracking,  growling,  grunting,  yelling,  squeal- 
ing, wailing,  trilling — and  through  all  this  terrible  turmoil  there  rang 
distinctly  the  fatal  melody  of  the  Song  of  the  Unwept  Tear. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  She  was  worthy  of  his  love,  and  he  loved  her.   He,  however,  was  not  loveable,  and 
she  did  not  love  him." 

Madame  !  that  old  play  is  a  tragedy,  though  the  hero  in  it  is 
neither  killed  nor  commits  suicide.  The  eyes  of  the  heroine  are 
beautiful — very  beautiful : — Madame,  do  you  scent  the  perfume  of 
violets  ? — very  beautiful,  and  yet  so  piercing  that  they  struck  like 
poignards  of  glass  through  my  heart  and  probably  came  out  through 
my  back — and  yet  I  was  not  killed  by  those  treacherous,  murderous 
eyes.  The  voice  of  the  heroine  was  also  sweet — Madame,  was  it  a 
nightingale  you  heard  sing  just  as  I  spoke  ? — a  soft,  silken  voice,  a 
sweet  web  of  the  sunniest  tones,  and  my  soul  was  entangled  in  it  and 
choked  and  tormented  itself.  I  myself— it  is  the  Count  of  Ganges 
who  now  speaks,  and  as  the  story  goes  on,  in  Venice — I  myself  soon 
had  enough  of  those  tortures,  and  had  thoughts  of  putting  an  end  to 
the  play  in  the  first  act,  and  of  shooting  myself  through  the  head, 
foolscap  and  all.  Therefore  I  went  to  a  fancy  store  in  the  Via 
Burstah,  where  I  saw  a  pair  of  beautiful  pistols  in  a  case  —  I 
remember  them  perfectly  well — near  them  stood  many  ornamental 
articles  of  mother-of-pearl  and  gold,  steel  hearts  on  gilt  chains,  por- 
celain cups  with  delicate  devices,  and  snuff-boxes  with  pretty  pictures, 
such  as  the  divine  history  of  Susannah,  the  Swan  Song  of  Leda,  the 
Rape  of  the  Sabines,  Lucretia,  a  fat,  virtuous  creature,  with  naked 
bosom,  in  which  she  was  lazily  sticking  a  dagger;  the  late  Bethmann, 
la  belle  Ferroniere — all  enrapturing  faces— but  I  bought  the  pistols 
without  much  ado,  and  then  I  bought  balls,  then  powder,  and  then  1 
went  to  the  restaurant  of  Signor  Somebody,  and  ordered  oysters  and 
a  glass  of  Hock. 

15 


—   170  — 

I  could  eat  nothing,  and  still  less  could  I  drink.  The  warm  tears 
fell  in  the  glass,  and  in  that  glass  I  saw  my  dear  home,  the  blue,  holy 
Ganges,  the  ever  gleaming  Himalaya,  the  giant  banyan  woods,  amid 
whose  broad  arcades  calmly  wandered  wise  elephants  and  white- 
robed  pilgrims,  strange  dream-like  flowers  gazed  on  me  with  meaning 
glance,  wondrous  golden  birds  sang  softly,  flashing  sun-rays  and  the 
droll,  silly  chatter  of  monkies  pleasantly  mocked  me,  from  far  pagodas 
sounded  the  pious  prayers  of  priests,  and  amid  them  rang  the  melt- 
ing, wailing  voice  of  the  Sultaness  of  Delhi — she  ran  wildly  around 
in  her  earpetted  chamber,  she  tore  her  silver  veil,  she  struck  with  her 
peacock  fan  the  black  slave  to  the  ground,  she  wept,  she  raged,  she 
cried. — I  could  not  hear  what  she  said,  the  restaurant  of  Signor 
Somebody  is  three  thousand  miles  distant  from  the  Harem  of  Delhi, 
besides  the  fair  Sultaness  had  been  dead  three  thousand  years — 
and  I  quickly  drank  up  the  wine,  the  clear,  joy-giving  wine,  and  yet 

my  soul  grew  darker  and  sadder — I  was  condemned  to  death. 
******* 

As  I  left  the  restaurant,  I  heard  the  "bell  of  poor  sinners"  ring,  a 
crowd  of  people  swept  by  me ;  but  I  placed  myself  at  the  corner  of 
the  Sh-ada  San  Giovanni,  and  recited  the  followiug  monologue: 

Tn  ancient  tales  they  tell  of  golden  castles, 
Where  harps  are  sounding,  lovely  ladies  dance, 
And  trim  attendants  serve,  and  jessamine, 
Myrtle  and  roses  spread  their  soft  perfume — 
And  yet  a  single  word  of  sad  enchantment, 
Sweeps  all  the  glory  of  the  scene  to  naught, 
And  there  remains  but  ruins  old  and  gray, 
And  screaming  birds  of  night  and  foul  morass, — 
E'en  so  have  I  with  a  short  single  word, 
Enchanted  Nature's  blooming  loveliness. 
There  lies  she  now,  lifeless  and  cold  and  pale, 
E'en  like  a  monarch's  corse  laid  out  in  state, 
The  royal  deathly  cheeks  fresh  stained  with  rouge, 
And  in  his  hand  the  kingly  sceptre  laid, 
Yet  still  his  lips  are  yellow  and  most  changed, 
For  they  forget  to  dye  them,  as  they  should, 
And  mice  are  jumping  o'er  the  monarch's  nose, 
And  mock  the  golden  sceptre  in  his  grasp. 

It  is  an  universal  regulation,  Madame,  that  every  one  should 
deliver  a  soliloquy  before  shooting  himself.    Most  men,  on  such  occa* 


—    171  — 


sions,  use  Hamlet's  "  To  be,  or  not  to  be."  It  is  an  excellent  pas- 
sage, and  I  would  gladly  have  quoted  it- — but  charity  begins  at 
home,  and  when  a  man  has  written  tragedies  himself,  in  which  such 
farewell-to-life  speeches  occur,  as  for  instance,  in  my  immortal 
"  Almansor,"  it  is  very  natural  that  one  should  prefer  his  own  words 
even  to  Shakspeare's.  At  any  rate  the  delivery  of  such  speeches 
is  an  excellent  custom  ;  for  thereby  one  gains  at  least  a  little  time. 
And  as  it  came  to  pass  that  I  remained  a  long  time  standing  on  the 
the  corner  of  the  Strada  San  Giovanni — and  as  I  stood  there  like  a 
condemned  criminal  awaiting  death,  I  raised  my  eyes,  and  suddenly 
beheld  her. 

She  wore  her  blue  silk  dress  and  rose-red  bonnet,  and  her  eyes 
beamed  on  me  so  mild,  so  death-conqueringly,  so  life-givingly. — 
Madame,  you  well  know,  that  when  the  vestals  in  ancient  Rome,  met 
on  their  way  a  malefactor  condemned  to  death,  they  had  the  right  to 
pardon  him,  and  the  poor  rogue  lived. — With  a  single  glance  she 
saved  my  life,  and  I  stood  before  her  revived,  and  dazzled  by  the 
sunny  gleaming  of  her  beauty,  and  she  passed  on — and  left  me  alive. 


CHAPTER  III. 

And  she  saved  my  life,  and  I  live,  and  that  is  the  main  point. 

Others  may,  if  they  choose,  enjoy  the  good  fortune  of  having  their 
lady-love  adorn  their  graves  with  garlands  and  water  them  with  the 

tears  of  true  love,  Oh,  women  !  hate  me,  laugh  at  me,  mitten 

me ! — but  let  me  live  !  Life  is  all  too  wondrous  sweet,  and  the  world 
is  so  beautifully  bewildered;  it  is  the  dream  of  an  intoxicated 
divinity  who  has  taken  French  leave  of  the  tippling  multitude  of  im- 
mortals, and  has  laid  down  to  sleep  in  a  solitary  star,  and  knows  not 
himself  that  he  also  creates  all  that  which  he  dreams — and  the  dream 
images  form  themselves  often  so  fantastically  wildly,  and  often  so 
harmoniously  and  reasonably.  The  Iliad,  Plato,  the  battle  of  Mara- 
thon, Moses,  the  Medician  Yenus,  the  Cathedral  of  Strasburg,  the 
French  Revolution,  Hegel  and  steamboats,  &c,  &c,  are  other  good 
thoughts  in  this  divine  dream — but  it  will  not  last  long,  and  the 

immortal  one  awakes  and  rubs  his  sleepy  eyes,  and  smiles  and 

our  world  has  run  to  nothing — yes,  has  never  been. 

No  matter !  I  live.  If  I  am  but  the  shadowy  image  in  a  dream, 
still  this  is  better  than  the  cold  black  void  annihilation  of  Death. 


—   172  — 


Life  is  the  greatest  of  blessings  and  death  the  worst  of  evils.  Berlin 
lieutenants  of  the  guard  may  sneer  and  call  it  cowardice,  because  the 
Prince  of  Homburg  shudders  when  he  beholds  his  open  grave. 
Henry  Kleist  had,  however,  as  much  courage  as  his  high  breasted, 
tightly  laced  colleagues,  and  has,  alas !  proved  it.  But  all  great, 
powerful  souls  love  life.  Goethe's  Egmont  does  not  cheerfully  take 
leave  "  of  the  eheerful  wontedness  of  being  and  action."  Immerman's 
Edwin  clings  to  life  "  like  a  child  upon  the  mother's  breast."  And 
though  he  finds  it  hard  to  live  by  stranger  mercy,  he  still  begs  for 
mercy  :    "  For  life  and  breath  is  still  the  best  of  boons." 

"When  Odysseus  in  the  lower  world  regards  Achilles  as  the  leader 
of  dead  heroes,  and  extols  his  renown  among  the  living,  and  his  glory 
even  among  the  dead,  the  latter  replies : 

No  more  discourse  of  death,  consolingly,  noble  Odysseus! 
Rather  would  I  in  the  field  as  daily  laborer  be  toiling, 
Slave  to  the  meanest  of  men,  a  pauper  and  lacking  possessions, 
Than  mid  the  infinite  host  of  long  vanished  mortals  be  ruler. 

Yes,  when  Major  Duvent  challenged  the  great  Israel  Lyon  to 
fight  with  pistols  and  said  to  him  :  "  If  you  do  not  meet  me,  Mr. 
Lyon,  you  are  a  dog;"  the  latter  replied  '  I  would  rather  be  a  live 
dog  than  a  dead  lion  !" — and  was  right.  I  have  fought  often  enough 
Madame  to  dare  to  say  this — God  be  praised  !  I  live !  Red  life  boils 
in  my  veins,  earth  yields  beneath  my  feet,  in  the  glow  of  love  I 
embrace  trees  and  statues,  and  they  live  in  my  embrace.  Every 
woman  is  to  me  the  gift  of  a  world.  I  revel  in  the  melody  of  her 
countenance,  and  with  a  single  glance  of  my  eye  I  can  enjoy  more 
than  others  with  their  every  limb  through  all  their  lives.  Every 
instant  is  to  me  an  eternity,  I  do  not  measure  time  with  the  ell  of 
Brabant  or  of  Hamburg,  and  I  need  no  priest  to  promise  me  a  second 
life,  for  I  can  live  enough  in  this  life,  when  I  live  backwards  in  the 
life  of  those  who  have  gone  before  me,  and  win  myself  an  eternity  in 
the  realm  of  the  past. 

And  I  live  !  The  great  pulsation  of  nature  beats  too  in  my  breast, 
and  when  I  carol  aloud,  I  am  answered  by  a  thousand-fold  echo.  I 
hear  a  thousand  nightingales.  Spring  hath  sent  them  to  awaken 
Earth  from  her  morning  slumber,  and  Earth  trembles  with  ecstasy, 
her  flowers  are  hymns,  which  she  sings  in  inspiration  to  the  sun — the 
sun  moves  far  too  slowly,  I  would  fain  lash  on  his  steeds  that  they 
might  advance  more  rapidly. — But  when  he  sinks  hissing  in  the  sea, 
and  the  night  rises  with  her  great  eyes,  oh!  then  true  pleasure  first 


—   173  — 


thrills  through  me  like  a  new  life,  the  evening  breezes  lie  like  flattering 
maidens  on  my  wild  heart,  and  the  stars  wink  to  me,  and  I  rise  and 
sweep  over  the  little  earth  and  the  little  thoughts  of  mankind.* 


CHAPTEE  IY. 

But  a  day  must  come  when  the  fire  of  youth  will  be  quenched  in 
my  veins,  when  winter  will  dwell  in  my  heart,  when  his  snow  flakes 
will  whiten  my  locks,  and  his  mists  will  dim  my  eyes.  Then  my 
friends  will  lie  in  their  lonely  grave,  and  I  alone  will  remain  like  a 
solitary  stalk  forgotten  by  the  reaper.  A  new  race  will  have  sprung 
up  with  new  desires  and  new  ideas,  full  of  wonder  I  hear  new  names 
and  listen  to  new  songs,  for  the  old  names  are  forgotten  and  I  myself 
am  forgotten,  perhaps  honored  by  but  few,  scorned  by  many  and  loved 
by  none !  And  then  the  rosy  cheeked  boys  will  spring  around  me 
aud  place  the  old  harp  in  my  trembling  hand,  and  say,  laughing, 
"Thou  indolent  grey-headed  old  man,  sing  us  again  songs  of  the 
dreams  of  thy  youth." 


*  The  reader  has  already  been  forewarned  in  the  preface  that  Heine's  writings  abound 
in  the  harshest,  at  times  most  repulsive,  expressions  of  his  views.  In  these  chapters 
we  see  him  under  two  influences — that  of  Hegelian  atheism  and  Hellenic  sensuousness, 
or  of  a  purely  material  Greek  nature-worship.  In  one  of  his  latest  poems,  a  translation 
from  which  appeared  in  the  London  Athenaeum,  March  31,  1856,  we  find  evidences  of  a 
fearful  though  occasional  reaction  from  this  early  intoxication : 
"  How  wearily  time  crawls  along, — 

That  hideous  snail  that  hastens  not, — 
While  I,  without  the  power  to  move, 
Am  ever  fixed  to  one  dull  spot. 

"  Upon  my  dreary  chamber  wall 

No  gleam  of  sunshine  can  I  trace 
I  know  that  only  for  the  grave, 
Shall  I  exchange  this  hopeless  place. 

u  Perhaps  already  I  am  dead, 

And  these  perhaps  are  phantoms  vain ; — 
These  motley  phantasies  that  pass 

At  night  through  my  disordered  brain. 

"Perhaps  with  ancient  heathen  shapes, 
Old  faüed  gods,  this  brain  is  full ; 
Who,  for  their  most  unholy  rites, 
Have  chosen  a  dead  poet's  skull. 
"  And  charming  frightful  orgies  hold. — 
The  mad-cap  phantoms ! — all  the  night, 
That  in  the  morning  this  dead  hand 
About  their  revelries  may  write." 

[Note  by  Translator.] 

15* 


—   174  — 


Then  I  will  grasp  the  harp  and  my  old  joys  and  sorrows  will  awake, 
tears  will  again  gleam  on  my  pale  cheeks.  Spring  will  bloom  once 
more  in  my  breast,  sweet  tones  of  woe  will  tremble  on  the  harp-strings. 
I  will  see  once  more  the  blue  flood  and  the  marble  palaces  and  the 
lovely  faces  of  ladies  and  young  girls — and  1  will  sing  a  song  of  the 
flowers  of  Brenta. 

It  will  be  my  last  song,  the  stars  will  gaze  on  me  as  in  the  nights  of 
my  youth,  the  loving  moonlight  will  once  more  kiss  my  cheeks,  the 
spirit  chorus  of  nightingales  long  dead  will  sound  from  afar,  my  eyes 
intoxicated  with  sleep  will  softly  close,  my  soul  will  re-echo  with  the 
notes  of  my  harp — perfume  breathes  from  the  flowers  of  the  Brenta. 

A  tree  will  shadow  my  grave.  I  would  gladly  have  it  a  palm,  but 
that  tree  will  not  grow  in  the  North.  It  will  be  a  linden,  and  of  a 
summer  evening  lovers  will  sit  there  caressing ;  the  green  finches 
will  be  listening  silently,  and  my  linden  will  rustle  protectingly  over 
the  heads  of  the  happy  ones  who  will  be  so  happy  that  they  will  have 
no  time  to  read  what  is  written  on  the  white  tomb-stone.  But  when 
at  a  later  day,  the  lover  has  lost  his  love,  then  he  will  come  again  to 
the  well-known  linden,  and  sigh,  and  weep,  and  gaze  long  and  oft  upon 
the  stone  until  he  reads  the  inscription  :  "  He  loved  the  flowers  of  the 
Brenta." 


CHAPTER  Y. 

Madame  !  I  have  been  telling  yon  lies.  I  am  not  the  Count  of  the 
Ganges.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  see  the  holy  stream,  nor  the  lotus 
flowers,  which  are  mirrored  in  its  sacred  waves.  Never  did  I  lie 
dreaming  under  Indian  palms,  nor  in  prayer  before  the  Diamond  Deity 
J uggernaut,  who  with  his  diamonds  might  have  easily  aided  me  out 
of  my  difficulties.  I  have  no  more  been  in  Calcutta  than  the  turkey, 
of  which  I  ate  yesterday  at  dinner,  had  ever  been  in  the  realms 
of  the  Grand  Turk.  Yet  my  ancestors  came  from  Hindostan,  and 
therefore  I  feel  so  much  at  my  ease  in  the  great  forest  of  song 
of  Yalmiki.  The  heroic  sorrows  of  the  divine  Ramo,  move  my  heart 
like  familiar  griefs,  from  the  flower  lays  of  Kalidasa  the  sweetest 
memories  bloom,  and  when  a  few  years  ago,  a  gentle  lady  in  Berlin 
showed  me  the  beautiful  pictures,  which  her  father,  who  had  been 
Governor-General  in  India,  had  brought  from  thence,  the  delicately 
painted,  holy,  calm  faces,  seemed  as  familiar  to  me  as  though  I  were 
gazing  at  my  own  family  gallery. 


—   175  — 


Franz  Bopp— Madame  you  have  of  course  read  his  Nalus  and  his 
System  of  Conjugations — gave  me  much  information  relative  to  my 
ancestry,  and  I  now  know  with  certainty  that  I  am  descended  from 
Brahma's  head,  and  not  from  his  corns.  I  have  also  good  reason  to 
believe  that  the  entire  Mahabarata  with  its  two  hundred  thousand 
verses  is  merely  an  allegorical  love-letter,  which  my  first  fore-father 
wrote  to  my  first  fore-mother.  Oh !  they  loved  dearly,  their  souls 
kissed,  they  kissed  with  their  eyes,  they  were  both  but  one  single  kiss. 

An  enchanted  nightingale  sits  on  a  red  coral  bough  in  the  silent 
sea,  and  sings  a  song  of  the  love  of  my  ancestors,  earnestly  gaze  the 
pearls  from  their  shelly  cells,  the  wondrous  water-flowers  tremble 
with  sad  longing,  the  cunning-quaint  sea-snails  bearing  on  their  backs 
many-coloured  porcelain  towers  come  creeping  onwards,  the  ocean- 
roses  blush  with  shame,  the  yellow,  sharp-pointed  starfish,  and  the 
thousand  hued  glassy  jelly-fish  quiver  and  stretch,  and  all  swarm  and 
crowd  and  listen. 

Unfortunately,  Madame,  this  nightingale  song  is  far  too  long  to 
admit  of  translation  here ;  it  is  as  long  as  the  world  itself — even  its 
mere  dedication  to  Anangas,  the  God  of  Love,  is  as  long  as  all  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  novels  together,  and  there  is  a  passage  referring  to  it 
in  Aristophanes,  which  in  German*  reads  thus  : 

"  Tiotio,  tiotio,  tiotiDX, 
Totototo,  totototo,  tototinx." 

[Voss's  Translation.] 

No,  I  was  not  born  in  India.  I  first  beheld  the  light  of  the  world 
on  the  shores  of  that  beautiful  stream,  in  whose  green  hills  folly 
grows  and  is  plucked  in  Autumn,  laid  away  in  cellars,  poured  into 
barrels,  and  exported  to  foreign  lands. 

 In  fact,  only  yesterday  I  heard  some  one  speaking  a  piece  of 

folly  which,  in  the  year  1818,  was  imprisoned  in  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
which  I  myself  then  saw  growing  on  the  Johannisburg. — But  much 
folly  is  also  consumed  at  home,  and  men  are  the  same  there  as  every- 
where :  they  are  born,  eat,  drink,  sleep,  laugh,  cry,  slander  each 
other,  are  in  great  trouble  and  care  about  the  continuation  of  their 
race,  try  to  seem  what  they  are  not  and  to  do  what  they  cannot,  never 
shave  until  they  have  a  beard,  and  often  have  beards  before  they 
get  discretion,  and  when  they  at  last  have  discretion,  they  drink  it 
away  in  white  and  red  folly. 


*  Or  in  English. 


—   176  — 


Mon  dien  t  if  I  had  faith,  so  that  I  could  remove  mountains — the 
J ohannisburg  would  be  just  the  mountain  which  I  would  transport 
about  everywhere.  But  not  having  the  requisite  amount  of  faith, 
fantasy  must  aid  me — and  she  at  once  bears  me  to  the  beautiful 
Ehine. 

Oh,  there  is  a  fair  land,  full  of  loveliness  and  sunshine.  In  its  blue 
streams  are  mirrored  the  mountain  shores,  with  their  ruined  towers, 
and  woods,  and  ancient  towns.  There,  before  the  house-door,  sit  the 
good  people,  of  a  summer  evening,  and  drink  out  of  great  cans,  and 
gossip  confidingly, — how  the  wine — the  Lord  be  praised  ! — thrives, 
and  how  justice  should  be  free  from  all  secrecy,  and  Marie  Antoi- 
nette's being  guillotined  is  none  of  our  business,  and  how  dear  the 
tobacco  tax  makes  the  tobacco,  and  how  all  mankind  are  equal,  and 
what  a  glorious  fellow  Gozrres  is. 

I  have  never  troubled  myself  much  with  such  conversation,  and 
greatly  preferred  sitting  by  the  maidens  in  the  arched  window,  and 
laughed  at  their  laughing,  and  let  them  strike  me  in  the  face  with 
flowers,  and  feigned  ill-nature  until  they  told  me  their  secrets,  or  some 
other  story  of  equal  importance.  Fair  Gertrude  was  half  wild  with 
delight  when  I  sat  by  her.  She  was  a  girl  like  a  flamiDg  rose,  and 
once  as  she  fell  on  my  neck,  I  thought  that  she  would  burn  away  in 
perfumes  in  my  arms.  Fair  Katharine  melted  in  musical  sweetness 
when  she  talked  with  me,  and  her  eyes  were  of  that  pure,  perfect 
internal  bluo,  which  I  have  never  seen  in  animated  beings,  and  very 
seldom  in  flowers — one  gazed  so  gladly  into  them,  and  could  then 
ever  imagine  the  sweetest  things.  But  the  beautiful  Hedwiga  loved 
me,  for  when  I  came  to  her  she  bowed  her  head  till  the  black  locks 
fell  down  over  the  blushing  countenance,  and  the  gleaming  eyes  shone 
forth  like  stars  from  a  dark  heaven.  Her  diffident  lips  spoke  not  a 
word,  and  even  I  could  say  nothing  to  her.  I  coughed  and  she 
trembled.  She  often  begged  me,  through  her  sisters,  not  to  climb 
the  rocks  so  eagerly,  or  to  bathe  in  the  Rhine  when  I  had  exercised 
or  drunk  wine  until  I  was  heated.  Once  I  overheard  her  pious  prayer 
to  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  which  she  had  adorned  with  leaf 
gold  and  illuminated  with  a  gloAving  lamp,  and  which  stood  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  sitting-room.  She  prayed  to  the  Mother  of  God  to  keep 
me  from  climbing,  drinking  and  bathing  !  I  should  certainly  have 
been  desperately  in  love  with  her  had  she  manifested  the  least  indif- 
ference, and  I  was  indifferent  because  I  knew  that  she  loved  me. 
Madame,  if  any  one  would  win  my  love,  they  must  treat  mc  en 
canaille. 


—   177  — 


Johanna  was  the  cousin  of  the  three  sisters,  and  I  was  right  glad 
.to  be  with  her,  She  knew  the  most  beautiful  old  legends,  and  when 
she  pointed  with  the  whitest  hand  in  the  world  through  the  window 
out  to  the  mountains  where  all  had  happened  which  she  narrated, 
I  became  fairly  enchanted.  The  old  knights  rose  visibly  from  the 
ruined  castles  and  hewed  away  at  each  other's  iron  clothes,  the  Lorely 
sat  again  on  the  mountain  summit,  singing  a-down  her  sweet  seductive 
song,  and  the  Ehine  rippled  so  intelligibly,  so  calmingly — and  yet  at 
the  same  time  so  mockingly  and  strangely — and  the  fair  Johanna 
gazed  at  me  so  bewilderingly,  so  mysteriously,  so  enigmatically  con- 
fiding, as  though  she  herself  were  one  with  the  legend  which  she 
narrated.  She  was  a  slender,  pale  beauty,  sickly  and  musing,  her 
eyes  were  clear  as  truth  itself,  her  lips  piously  arched,  in  her  features 
lay  a  great  untold  story — perhaps  a  love  legend  ?  I  know  not  what 
it  was,  nor  had  I  ever  courage  to  ask.  When  I  gazed  long  upon 
her  I  became  calm  and  cheerful — it  seemed  to  me  as  though  there 
were  a  tranquil  Sunday  in  my  heart,  and  that  the  angels  were  holding 
church  service  there. 

In  such  happy  hours  I  told  her  tales  of  my  childhood,  and  she 
listened  earnestly  to  me,  and  singular !  when  I  could  not  think  of 
this  or  that  name,  she  remembered  it.  When  I  then  asked  her  with 
wonder  where  she  had  learned  the  name,  she  would  answer  with  a 
smile  that  she  had  learned  it  of  a  little  bird  which  had  built  its  nest 
on  the  sill  of  her  window — and  she  tried  to  make  me  believe  that 
it  was  the  same  bird  which  I  once  bought  with  my  pocket  money 
from  a  hard-hearted  peasant  boy,  and  then  let  fly  away.  But  I 
believed  that  she  knew  everything  because  she  was  so  pale,  and 
really  soon  died.  She  also  knew  when  she  must  die,  and  wished 
that  I  would  leave  Andernach  the  day  before.  When  I  bade  her 
farewell  she  gave  me  both  her  hands — they  were  white,  sweet  hands, 
and- pure  as  the  Host — and  she  said :  thou  art  very  good,  and  when 
thou  art  bad,  then  think  of  the  little  dead  Veronica. 

Did  the  chattering  birds  also  tell  her  tin's  name  ?  Often  in  hours 
when  desirous  of  recalling  the  past,  I  had  wearied  my  brain  in  trying 
to  think  of  that  dear  name,  and  could  not. 

And  now  that  I  have  it  again,  my  earliest  infancy  shall  bloom 
again  in  recollections — and  I  am  again  a  child,  and  play  with  other 
children  in  the  Castle  Court  at  Düsseldorf,  on  the  Rhine. 


—   178  — 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Yes,  Madame,  there  was  I  born,  and  I  am  particular  in  calling 
attention  to  this  fact,  lest  after  my  death  seven  cities — those  of 
Schiida,  Krähwinkel,  Polwitz,  Bockum,  Dülken,  Göttingen,  and 
Schöppenstadt* — should  contend  for  the  honour  of  having  witnessed 
my  birth.  Düsseldorf  is  a  town  on  the  Rhine,  where  about  sixteen 
thousand  mortals  live,  and  where  many  hundred  thousands  are  buried. 
And  among  them  are  many  of  whom  my  mother  says  it  were  better  if 
they  were  still  alive — for  example,  my  grandfather  and  my  uncle,  the 
old  Herr  von  Gelden,  and  the  young  Herr  von  Gelden,  who  were 
both  such  celebrated  doctors,  and  saved  the  lives  of  so  many  men,  and 
yet  at  last  must  both  die  themselves.  And  good  pious  Ursula,  who 
bore  me,  when  a  child,  in  her  arms,  also  lies  buried  there,  and  a  rose- 
bush grows  over  her  grave — she  loved  rose-perfume  so  much  in  her 
life,  and  her  heart  was  all  rose-perfume  and  goodness.  And  the 
shrewd  old  Canonicus  also  lies  there  buried.  Lord,  how  miserable  he 
looked  when  I  last  saw  him  !  He  consisted  of  nothing  but  soul  and 
plasters,  and  yet  he  studied  night  and  day  as  though  he  feared  lest 
the  worms  might  find  a  few  ideas  missing  in  his  head.  Little 
William  also  lies  there — and  that  is  my  fault.  "We  were  schoolmates 
in  the  Franciscan  cloister,  and  were  one  day  playing  on  that  side  of 
the  building  where  the  Düssel  flows  between  stone  walls,  and  I  said, 
"  William — do  get  the  kitten  out,  which  has  just  fallen  in  !"  and  he 
cheerfully  climbed  out  on  the  board  which  stretched  over  the  brook, 
and  pulled  the  cat  out  of  the  water,  but  fell  in  himslf,  and  when  they 
took  him  out  he  was  dripping  and  dead.  The  kitten  lived  to  a  good 
old  age. 

The  town  of  Düsseldorf  is  very  beautiful,  and  if  you  think  of  it  when 
in  foreign  lands  and  happen  at  the  same  time  to  have  been  born  there, 
strange  feelings  come  over  the  soul.  I  was  born  there,  and  feel  as 
if  I  must  go  directly  home.  And  when  I  say  home  I  mean  the 
Volkerstrasse  and  the  house  where  I  was  born.  This  house  will  be 
some  day  very  remarkable,  and  I  have  sent  word  to  the  old  lady  who 
owns  it,  that  she  must  not  for  her  life  sell  it.  For  the  whole  house 
she  would  now  hardly  get  as  much  as  the  present  which  the  green 


*  All  insignificant  towns — with  the  exception  of  Göttingen,  which  is  here  supposed  to 
be  equally  insignificant.— Note  by  the  Translator. 


—   179  — 


veiled  English  ladies  wall  give  the  servant  girl  when  she  shows  them 
the  room  where  I  was  born  and  the  hen-house  wherein  my  father 
generally  imprisoned  me  for  stealing  grapes,  and  also  the  brown  door 
on  which  my  mother  taught  me  to  write  with  chalk — oh  Lord! 
Madame — should  I  ever  become  a  famous  author,  it  has  cost  my 
poor  mother  trouble  enough. 

But  my  renown  as  yet  slumbers  in  the  marble  quarries  of 
Carrara ;  the  waste  paper  laurel  with  which  they  have  bedecked 
my  brow,  has  not  spread  its  perfume  through  the  wide  world,  and 
the  green  veiled  English  ladies,  when  they  visit  Düsseldorf,  leave 
the  celebrated  house  un visited,  and  go  directly  to  the  Market 
Place  and  there  gaze  on  the  colossal  black  equestrian  statue  which 
stands  in  its  midst.  This  represents  the  Prince  Elector,  Jan  Wil- 
helm. He  wears  black  armour  and  a  long,  hanging  wig.  When  a 
boy,  I  was  told  that  the  artist  who  made  this  statue  observed  with 
terror  while  it  was  being  cast  that  he  had  not  metal  enough  to  fill 
the  mould,  and  then  all  the  citizens  of  the  town  came  running  with 
all  their  silver  spoons,  and  threw  them  in  to  make  up  the  deficiency 
— and  I  often  stood  for  hours  before  the  statue  wondering  how  many 
spoons  were  concealed  in  it,  and  how  many  apple-tarts  the  silver 
would  buy.  Apple  tarts  were  then  my  passion — now  it  is  love, 
truth,  liberty  and  crab  soup — and  not  far  from  the  statue  of  the 
Prince  Elector,  at  the  Theatre  corner,  generally  stood  a  curiously 
constructed  sabre-legged  rascal  with  a  white  apron,  and  a  basket  girt 
around  him  full  of  smoking  apple  tarts,  which  he  well  knew  how  to 
praise  with  an  irresistible  voice.  "  Here  you  are  !  hot  apple  tarts  ! 
just  from  the  oven — see  how  they  smoke — quite  delicious  !"  Truly, 
whenever  in  my  later  years  the  Evil  One  sought  to  win  me,  he  always 
cried  in  just  such  an  enticing  soprano  voice,  and  I  should  certainly 
have  never  remained  twelve  hours  by  the  Signora  Guilietta,  if  she 
had  not  thrilled  me  with  her  sweet  perfumed  apple-tart-tones.  And 
in  fact  the  apple  tarts  would  never  have  so  sorely  tempted  me,  if 
the  crooked  Hermann  had  not  covered  them  up  so  mysteriously  with 
his  white  aprons — and  it  is  aprons,  you  know,  which — but  I  wander 
from  the  subject.  I  was  speaking  of  the  equestrian  statue  which  has 
so  many  silver  spoons  in  it,  and  no  soup,  and  which  represents  the 
Prince  Elector,  Jan  Wilhelm. 

He  was  a  brave  gentleman  'tis  reported,  and  was  himself  a  man  of 
genius.  He  founded  the  picture  gallery  in  Düsseldorf,  and  in  the 
observatory  there,  they  show  a  very  curiously  executed  piece  of 
wooden  work,  consisting  of  one  box  within  another,  which  he,  himself, 


—    180  — 


had  carved  in  his  leisure  hours,  of  which  latter,  he  had  every  day  four 
and  twenty. 

In  those  days  princes  were  not  the  persecuted  wretches  which  they 
now  are.  Their  crowns  grew  firmly  on  their  heads,  and  at  night  they 
drew  their  caps  over  it  and  slept  in  peace,  and  their  people  slumbered 
calmly  at  their  feet,  and  when  they  awoke  in  the  morning  they  said 
"  Good  morning,  father  I" — and  he  replied  "  Good  morning,  dear 
children !" 

But  there  came  a  sudden  change  over  all  this,  for  one  morning  when 
we  awoke,  and  would  say  "  Good  morning,  father !"  the  father  had 
travelled  away,  and  in  the  whole  town  there  was  nothing  but  dumb 
sorrow.  Everywhere  there  was  a  funeral-like  expression,  and  people 
slipped  silently  through  tho  market  and  read  the  long  paper  placed 
on  the  door  of  the  townhouse.  It  was  dark  and  lowering,  yet  the 
lean  tailor  Kilian  stood  in  the  nankeen  jacket,  which  he  generally 
wore  only  at  home,  and  in  his  blue  woollen  stockings  so  that  his  little 
bare  legs  peeped  out  as  if  in  sorrow,  and  his  thin  lips  quivered  as  he 
read,  murmuringly,  the  handbill.  An  old  invalid  soldier  from  the 
Palatine,  read  it  in  a  somewhat  louder  tone,  and  little  by  little  a 
transparent  tear  ran  down  his  white,  honorable  old  mustache.  I 
stood  near  him  and  asked  why  we  wept?  And  he  replied  "  The  Prince 
Elector  has  abdicated."  And  then  he  read  further,  and  at  the  words 
"  for  the  long  manifested  fidelity  of  my  subjects,"  "  and  hereby  release 
you  from  allegiance,"  he  wept  still  more.  It  is  a  strange  sight  to  see, 
when  so  old  a  man,  in  faded  uniform,  with  a  scarred  veteran's  face,  sud- 
denly bursts  into  tears.  While  we  read,  the  Princely  Electoral  coat 
of  arms  was  being  taken  down  from  the  Town  Hall,  and  everything 
began  to  appear  as  miserably  dreary  as  though  we  were  waiting  for 
an  eclipse  of  the  sun.  The  gentlemen  town  councillors  went  about 
at  an  abdicating  wearisome  gait,  even  the  omnipotent  beadle  looked 
as  though  he  had  no  more  commands  to  give,  and  stood  calmly  indif- 
ferent, although  the  crazy  Aloyisics,  stood  upon  one  leg  and  chat- 
tered the  names  of  French  generals,  while  the  tipsy,  crooked 
Gümpertz  rolled  around  in  the  gutter,  singing  ca  ira!  ca  ira! 

But  I  went  home,  weeping  and  lamenting  because  "  the  Prince 
Elector  had  abducted!"  My  mother  had  trouble  enough  to  explain 
the  word  but  I  would  hear  nothing.  I  knew  what  I  knew,  and  went 
weeping  to  bed,  and  in  the  night  dreamed  that  the  world  had  come  to 
an  end — that  all  the  fair  flower  gardens  and  green  meadows  of  the 
world  were  taken  up  and  rolled  up,  and  put  away  like  carpets  and 
baize  from  the  floor,  that  a  beadle  climbed  up  on  a  high  ladder  and 


—   181  — 


took  down  the  sun,  and  that  the  tailor  Kilian  stood  by  and  said  to 
himself  "  I  must  go  home  and  dress  myself  neatly,  for  I  am  dead  and 
am  to  be  buried  this  afternoon."  And  it  grew  darker  and  darker — a 
few  stars  glimmered  sparely  on  high,  and  these  at  length  fell  down 
like  yellow  leaves  in  Autumn,  one  by  one  all  men  vanished,  and  I  a 
poor  child,  wandered  in  anguish  around,  until  before  the  willow  fence 
of  a  deserted  farm-house,  I  saw  a  man  digging  up  the  earth  with  a 
spade,  and  near  him  an  ugly,  spiteful  looking  woman,  who  held  some- 
thing in  her  apron  like  a  human  head — but  it  was  the  moon,  and  she 
laid  it  carefully  in  the  open  grave — and  behind  me  stood  the  Palatine 
iuvalid,  sighing  and  spelling  "The  Prince  Elector  has  abducted." 

When  I  awoke,  the  sun  shone  as  usual  through  the  window,  there 
was  a  sound  of  drums  in  the  street,  and  as  I  entered  the  sitting 
room  and  wished  my  father — who  was  sitting  in  his  white  dressing 
gown — a  good  morning,  I  heard  the  little  light-footed  barber,  as  he 
made  up  his  hair,  narrate  very  minutely  that  homage  would  that 
morning  be  offered  at  the  Town  Hall  to  the  Arch  Duke  Joachim.  I 
heard,  too,  that  the  new  ruler  was  of  excellent  family,  that  he  had 
married  the  sister  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon,  and  was  really  a  very 
respectable  man — that  he  wore  his  beautiful  black  hair  in  11  owing 
locks,  that  he  would  shortly  enter  the  town,  and  in  fine  that  he  must 
please  all  the  ladies.  Meanwhile,  the  drumming  in  the  streets  con- 
tinued, and  I  stood  before  the  house-door  and  looked  at  the  Frf.uch 
troops  marching  in  that  joyful  race  of  fame,  who,  singing  and  playing, 
swept  over  the  world,  the  merry,  serious  faces  of  the  grenadiers,  the 
bear-skin  shakoes,  the  tri-coloured  cockades,  the  glittering  bayonets, 
the  roltigeurs  full  of  vivacity  and  point  d'honneur,  and  the  omnipotent 
giant-like  silver  laced  Tambour  Major,  who  cast  his  baton  with  a 
gilded  head  as  high  as  the  second  story,  and  his  eyes  to  the  third, 
where  pretty  girls  gazed  from  the  windows.  I  was  so  glad  that  sol- 
diers were  to  be  quartered  in  our  house — in  which  my  mother  differed 
from  me — and  I  hastened  to  the  market-place.  There  everything 
looked  changed — somewhat  as  though  the  world  had* been  new  white- 
washed. A  new  coat  of  arms  was  placed  on  the  Town  Hall,  its  iron 
balconies  were  hung  with  embroidered  velvet  drapery.  French  grena- 
diers stood  as  sentinels,  the  old  gentlemen  town  councillors  had  put 
on  new  faces,  and  donned  their  Sunday  coats  and  looked  at  each 
other  Frenchily,  and  said  "Bon  jour  T  ladies  looked  from  every 
window,  curious  citizens  and  armed  soldiers  filled  the  square,  and  I, 
with  other  boys,  climbed  on  the  great  bronze  horse  of  the  Prince 
Elector,  and  thence  gazed  down  on  the  motley  crowd. 

16 


—    182  — 


Our  neighbor's  Peter,  and  tall  Jack  Short  nearly  broke  their 
necks  in  accomplishing  this  feat,  and  it  would  have  been  better  if 
they  had  been  killed  outright,  for  the  one  afterwards  ran  away  from 
his  parents,  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  deserted,  and  was  finally  shot  in 
Mayence,  while  the  other,  having  made  geographical  researches  in 
strange  pockets,  was  on  this  account  elected  member  of  a  public 
tread-mill  institute.  But  having  broken  the  iron  bands  which  bound 
him  to  his  fatherland,  he  passed  safely  beyond  sea,  and  eventually 
died  in  London,  in  consequence  of  wearing  a  much  too  long  cravat, 
one  end  of  which  happened  to  be  firmly  attached  to  something,  just 
as  a  royal  official  removed  a  plank  from  beneath  his  feet. 

Tall  Jack  told  us  that  there  was  no  school  to-day  on  account  of 
the  homage.  We  had  to  wait  a  long  time  ere  this  was  over. 
Finally  the  balcony  of  the  Council  House  was  filled  with  gaily  dressed 
gentlemen,  with  flags  and  trumpets,  and  our  burgomaster,  in  his  cele- 
brated red  coat,  delivered  an  oration,  which  stretched  out  like  India 
rubber  or  like  a  night-cap  into  which  one  has  thrown  a  stone — only 
that  it  was  not  the  stone  of  wisdom — and  I  could  distinctly  under- 
stand many  of  his  phrases,  for  instance  that  "we  are  now  to  be  made 
happy" — and  at  the  last  words  the  trumpets  sounded  out  and  the 
people  cried  hurrah ! — and  as  I  myself  cried  hurrah,  I  held  fast  to 
the  old  Prince  Elector.  And  it  was  really  necessary  that  I  should, 
for  I  began  to  grow  giddy.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  people  were 
standing  on  their  heads  because  the  world  whizzed  around,  while  the 
old  Prince  Elector,  with  his  long  wig,  nodded  and  whispered,  "  Hold 
fast  to  me  !" — and  not  till  the  cannon  re-echoed  along  the  wall  did  I 
become  sobered,  and  climbed  slowly  down  from  the  great  bronze 
horse. 

As  I  went  home  I  saw  the  crazy  Aloyisius  again  dancing  on  one 
leg,  while  he  chattered  the  names  of  French  generals,  and  I  also  be- 
held crooked  Gumpertz  rolling  in  the  gutter  and  growling  ca  ira,  ca, 
ira,  and  I  said  to  my  mother  that  we  were  all  to  be  made  happy,  and 
that  on  that  account  we  had  that  day  no  school. 


—    183  — 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  next  day  the  world  was  again  all  in  order,  and  we  had  school 
as  before,  and  things  were  got  by  heart  as  before — the  Roman  Em- 
perors, chronology — the  nomina  in  im,  the  verba  irregularia — Greek, 
Hebrew,  geography,  German,  mental  arithmetic — Lord !  my  head  is 
still  giddy  with  it ! — all  must  be  thoroughly  learned.  And  much  of 
it  was  eventually  to  my  advantage.  For  had  I  not  learned  the 
Roman  Emperors  by  heart,  it  would  subsequently  have  been  a  mat- 
ter of  perfect  indifference  to  me  whether  Niebuhr  had  or  had  not 
proved  that  they  never  really  existed.  And  had  I  not  learned  the 
numbers  of  the  different  years,  how  could  I  ever,  in  later  years,  have 
found  out  any  one  in  Berlin,  where  one  house  is  as  like  another  as 
drops  of  water,  or  as  grenadiers,  and  where  it  is  impossible  to  find  a 
friend  unless  you  have  the  number  of  his  house  in  your  head.  There- 
fore I  associated  with  every  friend  some  historical  event,  which  had 
happened  in  a  year  corresponding  to  the  number  of  his  house,  so  that 
the  one  recalled  the  other,  and  some  curious  point  in  history  always 
occurred  to  me  whenever  I  met  any  one  whom  I  visited.  For 
instance,  when  I  met  my  tailor  I  at  once  thought  of  the  Battle  of 
Marathon;  if  I  saw  the  banker  Christian  Gumpel,  I  remembered 
the  destruction  of  Jerusalem ;  if  a  Portugese  friend,  deeply  in  debt, 
of  the  flight  of  Mahomet ;  if  the  University  Judge,  a  man  whose 
probity  is  well  known,  of  the  death  of  Haman ;  and  if  Wadzeck,  I 
was  at  once  reminded  of  Cleopatra. — Ah,  heaven  !  the  poor  creature 
is  dead  now,  our  tears  are  dry,  and  we  may  say  of  her,  with  Hamlet, 
"Take  her  for  all  in  all,  she  was  an  old  woman — we  oft  shall  look 
upon  her  like  again !"  But  as  I  said,  chronology  is  necessary.  I 
know  men  who  have  nothing  in  their  heads  but  a  few  years,  yet  who 
know  exactly  where  to  look  for  the  right  houses,  and  are,  moreover, 
regular  professors.  But  oh,  the  trouble  I  had  at  school  with  my 
learning  to  count ! — and  it  went  even  worse  with  the  ready  reckoning. 
I  understood  best  of  all,  subtraction,  and  for  this  I  had  a  very  practi- 
cal rule — "  Four  can't  be  taken  from  three,  therefore  I  must  borrow 
one" — but  I  advise  all,  in  such  a  case,  to  borrow  a  few  extra  dollars, 
for  no  one  can  tell  what  may  happen. 

But  oh  !  the  Latin  ! — Madame,  you  can  really  have  no  idea  of  what 
a  mess  it  is.  The  Romans  would  never  have  found  time  to  conquer 
the  world  if  they  had  been  obliged  first  to  learn  Latin.    Lucky  dogs! 


—    184  — 


they  already  knew  in  their  cradles  the  nouns  ending  in  im.  I  on  the 
contrary  had  to  learn  it  by  heart,  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  but  still 
it  is  well  that  I  knew  it.  For  if  I,  for  example,  when  I  publicly  dis- 
puted in  Latin,  in  the  College  Hall  of  Göttingen  on  the  20th  of  July, 
1825 — Madame,  it  was  well  worth  while  to  hear  it — if  I,  I  say,  had 
said,  sinapem  instead  of  sinapim,  the  blunder  would  have  been  evi- 
dent to  the  Freshmen,  and  an  endless  shame  for  me.  Vis,  burte,  sitis, 
tussis,  cucumis,  amussis,  cannabis,  sinapis. — These  words  which  have 
attracted  so  much  attention  in  the  world,  effected  this,  inasmuch  as 
they  belonged  to  a  determined  class,  and  yet  were  withal  an  excep- 
tion. And  the  fact  that  I  have  them  ready  at  my  finger's  ends  when 
I  perhaps  need  them  in  a  hurry,  often  affords  me  in  life's  darkened 
hours,  much  internal  tranquillity  and  spiritual  consolation.  But, 
Madame,  the  verba  irregularis! — they  are  distinguished  from  the  verbis 
regularibus  by  the  fact  that  the  boys  in  learning  them  get  more 
whippings — are  terribly  difficult.  In  the  arched  way  of  the  Francis- 
can cloister  near  our  school-room,  there  hung  a  large  Christ-crucified  of 
grey  wood,  a  dismal  image,  that  even  yet  at  times  rises  in  my  dreams  and 
gazes  sorrowfully  on  me  with  fixed  bleeding  eyes — before  this  image 
I  often  stood  and  prayed.  "  Oh  thou  poor  and  also  tormented  God, 
I  pray  thee,  if  it  be  possible,  that  I  may  get  by  heart  the  irregular 
verbs !" 

I  will  say  nothing  of  Greek — otherwise  I  should  vex  myself  too 
much.  The  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  not  so  very  much  in  the 
wrong  when  they  asserted  that  Greek  was'  an  invention  of  the  Devil. 
Lord  knows  what  I  suffered  through  it.  It  went  better  with  Hebrew, 
for  I  always  had  a  great  predilection  for  the  Jews,  although  they  to 
this  very  hour  have  crucified  my  good  name.  In  fact  I  never  could 
get  so  far  in  Hebrew  as  my  watch  did,  which  had  a  much  more  inti- 
mate intercourse  with  pawnbrokers  than  I,  and  in  consequence 
acquired  many  Jewish  habits — for  instance,  it  would  not  go  on  Satur- 
day— and  it  learned  the  holy  language,  and  was  subsequently  occu- 
pied with  its  grammar,  for  often  when  sleepless  in  the  night  I  have 
to  my  amazement  heard  it  industriously  repeating :  Jcatal,  katalta, 
katalki — kit/el,  kitfalta,  kiftalti — pakat,  pokadeti — pikai — pik — pik. 

Meanwhile  I  learned  more  of  German  than  of  any  other  tongue, 
though  German  itself  is  not  such  child's  play,  after  all.  For  we  poor 
Germans,  who  have  already  been  sufficiently  vexed  with  having 
soldiers  quartered  on  us,  military  duties,  poll-taxes,  and  a  thousand 
other  exactions,  must  needs  over  and  above  all  this,  bag  Mr.  Adelung, 
and  torment  each  other  with  accusatives  and  datives.  I  learned  much 


—   185  — 

German  from  the  old  Rector  Schallmeyer,  a  brave,  clerical  gentleman, 
whose  protege  I  was  from  childhood.  Something  of  the  matter  I 
also  learned  from  Professor  Schramm,  a  man  who  had  written  a  book 
on  eternal  peace,  and  in  whose  class  my  school  fellows  quarrelled  and 
fought  with  unusual  vigor. 

And  while  thus  dashing  on  in  a  breath,  and  thinking  of  everything 
I  have  unexpectedly  found  myself  back  among  old  school  stories,,  and 
I  avail  myself  of  this  opportunity  to  mention,  Madame,  that  it  was 
not  my  fault,  if  I  learned  so  little  of  geography,  that  later  in  life  T 
could  not  make  my  way  in  the  world.  For  in  those  days  the  French 
made  an  intricate  mixture  of  all  limits  and  boundaries,  every  day 
lands  were  re-coloured  on  the  world's  map  ;  those  which  were  once 
blue  suddenly  became  green,  many  indeed  were  even  dyed  blood- 
red,  the  old  established  rules  were  so  confused  and  confounded  that 
the  Devil  himself  would  never  have  remembered  them.  The  products 
of  the  country  were  also  changed,  chickory  and  beets  now  grew  where 
only  hares  and  hunters  running  after  them  were  once  to  be  seen  ; 
even  the  character  of  different  races  changed,  the  Germans  became 
pliant,  the  French  paid  compliments  no  longer,  the  English  ceased 
making  ducks  and  drakes  of  their  money,  and  the  Venetians  were  not 
subtle  enough ;  there  was  promotion  among  princes,  old  kings  obtained 
new  uniforms,  new  kingdoms  were  cooked  up  and  sold  like  hot  cakes, 
many  potentates  were  chased  on  the  other  hand  from  house  and  home, 
and  had  to  find  some  new  way  of  earning  their  bread,  while  others 
went  at  once  at  a  trade,  and  manufactured  for  instance,  sealing-wax, 
or — Madame,  this  paragraph  must  be  brought  to  an  end,  or  I  shall 
be  out  of  breath — in  fine,  in  such  times  it  is  impossible  to  advance 
far  in  geography. 

1  succeeded  better  in  natural  history,  for  there  we  find  fewer 
changes  and  we  always  have  standard  engravings  of  apes,  kangaroos,  - 
zebras,  rhinoceroses,  &c,  &c.  And  having  many  such  pictures  in 
my  memory,  it  often  happens  that  at  first  sight  many  mortals  appear 
to  me  like  old  acquaintances. 

I  also  did  well  in  mythology,  and  took  a  real  delight  in  the  mob 
of  gods  and  goddesses  who  ran  so  jolly  naked  about  the  world.  I 
do  not  believe  that  there  was  a  schoolboy  in  ancient  Rome  who  knew 
the  principal  points  of  his  catechism — that  is,  the  loves  of  Yenus — 
better  than  I.  To  tell  the  plain  truth,  it  seems  to  me  that  if  we 
must  learn  all  the  heathen  gods  by  heart,  we  might  as  well  have  kept 
them  from  the  first,  and  we  have  not  perhaps  made  so  much  out  of 
our  New-Roman  Trinity  or  our  Jewish  unity.    Perhaps  the  old 

16* 


—   186  - 


mythology  was  not  in  reality  so  immoral  as  we  imagine,  and  it  was, 
for  example,  a  very  decent  idea  of  Homer  to  give  to  the  much  loved 
Venus  a  husband. 

But  I  succeeded  best  in  the  French  class  of  the  Abbe  d'Aulnot, 
a  French  emigre*  who  had  written  a  number  of  grammars,  and  wore  a 
red  wig,  and  jumped  about  very  nervously  when  he  recited  his  Art 
jwetique,  and  his  German  history.  He  was  the  only  one  in  the  whole 
gymnasium  who  taught  German  history.  Still  French  has  its  diffi- 
culties, and  to  learn  it  there  must  be  much  quartering  of  troops, 
much  drumming  in,  much  apprendre  par  coeur,  and  above  all,  no  one 
should  be  a  Bete  allemande.  From  all  this  resulted  many  a  cross 
word,  and  I  can  remember  as  though  it  happened  but  yesterday,  that 
I  got  into  many  a  scrape  through  la  religion.  I  was  once  asked  at 
least  six  times  in  succession  :  "  Henri,  what  is  the  French  for  '  the 
faith  V  "  And  six  times,  ever  more  weepingly,  I  replied.  "  It  is 
called  le  credit.,'  And  after  the  seventh  question,  with  his  cheeks  of 
a  deep  red-cherry-rage  colour,  my  furious  examinator  cried  "  It  is 
called  la  r&igicm" — and  there  was  a  rain  of  blows  and  a  thunder  of 
laughter  from  all  my  schoolmates.  Madame  ! — since  that  day  I  never 
hear  the  word  religion,  without  having  my  back  turn  pale  with  terror, 
and  my  cheeks  turn  red  with  shame.  And  to  tell  the  honest  truth, 
le  credit  has  during  my  life  stood  me  in  better  stead  than  la  religion. 
It  occurs  to  me  just  at  this  instant  that  I  still  owe  the  landlord  of  the 
Lion,  in  Bologna,  five  dollars.  And  I  pledge  you  my  sacred  word 
of  honour  that  I  would  willingly  owe  him  five  dollars  more,  if  I  could 
only  be  certain  that  I  should  never  again  hear  that  unlucky  word, 
la  religion,  as  long  as  I  live. 

Parbleu,  Madame  !  I  have  succeeded  tolerably  well  in  French. 
For  I  understand  not  only  patois,  but  even  aristocratic  governess 
•  French.  Not  long  ago,  when  in  noble  society,  I  understood  full 
one-half  of  the  conversation  of  two  German  countesses,  one  of  ' 
whom  could  count  at  least  sixty-four  years,  and  as  many  descents. 
Yes — in  the  Caj'6  Royal,  I  once  heard  Monsieur  Hans  Michel 
Martens  talking  French,  and  could  understand  every  word  he  spoke, 
though  there  was  no  understanding  in  any  thing  he  said.  "We  must 
know  the  spirit  of  a  language,  and  this  is  best  learned  by  drumming. 
Parbleu  1  how  much  do  I  not  owe  to  the  French  Drummer  who  was 
so  long  quartered  in  our  house,  who  looked  like  the  Devil,  and  yet 
had  the  good  heart  of  an  angel,  and  who  above  all  this  drummed  so 
divinely. 

He  was  a  little,  nervous  figure,  with  a  terrible  black  mustache, 


—   187  — 


beneath  which,  red  lips  came  bounding  suddenly  outwards,  while  his 
wild  eyes  shot  fiery  glances  all  around. 

I,  a  young  shaver,  stuck  to  him  like  a  burr,  and  helped  him  to  clean 
his  military  buttons  till  they  shone  like  mirrors,  and  to  pipe-clay  his 
vest — for  Monsieur  Le  Grand  liked  to  look  well — and  I  followed 
him  to  the  watch,  to  the  roll-call,  to  the  parade — in  those  times 
there  was  nothing  but  the  gleam  of  weapons  and  merriment — les 
jours  de  f6te  sont  passtes  !  Monsieur  Le  Grand  knew  but  a  little 
broken  German,  only  the  three  principal  words  in  every  tongue — 
"Bread,"  "Kiss,"  "Honour" — but  he  could  make  himself  very  in- 
telligible with  his  drum.  For  instance,  if  I  knew  not  what  the  word 
liben  meant,  he  drummed  the  Mirscillaise — and  I  understood  him. 
If  I  did  not  understand  the  word  egalit6,  he  drummed  the  march 

Ca  ira,  ca  ira,  ca  ira^ 

Les  aristocrats  a  la  Lanterne  ! 

and  I  understood  him.  If  I  did  not  know  what  hülse  meant,  he 
drummed  the  Dessauer  March,  which  we  Germans,  as  Goethe  also 
declares,  have  drummed  in  Champagne — and  I  understood  him.  He 
once  wanted  to  explain  to  me  the  word  V  Allemagne  (or  Germany) 
and  he  drummed  the  all  too  simple  melody,  which  on  market  days  is 
played  to  dancing  dogs — namely,  dum — dum — dumb  t  I  was  vexed 
■ — but  I  understood  him,  for  all  that ! 

In  like  manner  he  taught  me  modern  history.  I  did  not  under- 
stand, it  is  true,  the  words  which  he  spoke,  but  as  he  constantly 
drummed  while  speaking,  I  understood  him.  This  is,  fundamentally, 
the  best  method.  The  history  of  the  storming  of  the  Bastile,  of  the 
Tuilleries  and  the  like,  cannot  be  correctly  understood  until  we  know 
how  the  drumming  was  done  on  such  occasions.  In  our  school  com- 
pendiums  of  history  we  merely  read :  "  Their  excellencies,  the  Baron 
and  Count,  with  the  most  noble  spouses  of  the  aforesaid  were 
beheaded."  Their  highnesses  the  Dukes  and  Priuces  with  the  most 
noble  spouses  of  the  aforesaid  were  behead."  "  His  Majesty  the  King 
with  his  most  sublime  spouse,  the  Queen,  was  beheaded."  But  when 
you  hear  the  red  march  of  the  guillotine  drummed,  you  understand  it 
correctly,  for  the  first  time,  and  with  it,  the  how  and  the  why.  Madame 
■ — that  is  really  a  wonderful  march !  It  thrilled  through  marrow  and 
bone  when  I  first  heard  it,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  forgot  it.  People 
are  apt  to  forget  one  thing  and  another  as  they  grow  older,  and  a 
young  man  has  now-a-days  so  much  and  such  a  variety  of  knowledge 
to  keep  in  his  head — whist,  Boston,  genealogical  registers,  parlia- 
mentary conclusions,  dramaturgy,  the  liturgy,  carving — and  yet,  I 


—    188  — 


assure  yon,  that  despite  all  my  jogging  up  of  my  brain,  I  could  not  for  a 
long  time  recall  that  tremendous  tune !  And  only  to  think,  Madame  ! 
— not  long  ago,  I  sat  one  day  at  table  with  a  whole  menagerie  of 
Counts,  Princes,  Princesses,  Chamberlains,  Court-Marshal  Lesses, 
Seneschals,  Upper  Court  Mistresses,  Court-keepers-ot'-the-royal-plate, 
Court-hunters'  wives,  and  whatever  else  these  aristocratic  domestics 
are  termed,  and  their  under-domestics  ran  about  behind  their  chairs, 
and  shoved  full  plates  before  their  mouths — but  I,  who  was  passed 
by  and  neglected,  sat  at  leisure  without  the  least  occupation  for  my 
jaws,  and  kneaded  little  bread-balls,  and  drummed  with  my  fingers — 
and  to  my  astonishment,  I  found  myself  suddenly  drumming  the  red, 
long-forgotten  guillotine  march! 

"  And  what  happened  ?" — Madame,  the  good  people  were  not  in 
the  least  disturbed,  nor  did  they  know  that  other  people  when  they 
can  get  nothing  to  eat,  suddenly  begin  to  drum,  and  that,  too,  very 
queer  marches,  which  people  have  long  forgotten. 

Is  drumming  now,  an  inborn  talent,  or  was  it  early  developed  in 
me  ? — enough,  it  lies  in  my  limbs,  in  my  hands,  in  my  feet,  and  often 
involuntarily  manifests  itself.  I  once  sat  at  Berlin  in  the  lecture-room 
of  the  Privy  Counsellor  Schmaltz,  a  man  who  had  saved  the  state  by 
his  book  on  the  "Ked  and  Black  Coat  Danger." — You  remember, 
perhaps,  Madame,  that  in  Pausanias  we  are  told  that  by  the  braying 
of  an  ass  an  equally  dangerous  plot  was  once  discovered,  and  you  also 
know  from  Livy,  or  from  Becker's  History  of  the  World,  that  geese 
once  saved  the  capital,  and  you  must  certainly  know  from  Sallust 
that  by  the  chattering  of  a  loquacious  putain,  the  Lady  Livia,  that 
the  terrible  conspiracy  of  Cataline  came  to  light.  But  to  return 
to  the  mutton  aforesaid.  I  listened  to  popular  law  and  right,  in  the 
lecture-room  of  the  Herr  Privy  Councillor  Schmaltz,  and  it  was  a 
lazy  sleepy  summer  afternoon,  and  I  sat  on  the  bench  and  little  by 
little  I  listened  less  and  less — my  head  had  gone  to  sleep — when 
all  at  once  I  was  wakened  by  the  roll  of  my  own  feet,  which  had 
not  gone  to  sleep,  and  had  probably  observed  that  any  thing  but 
popular  rights  and  constitutional  tendencies  was  being  preached,  and 
my  feet  which,  with  the  little  eyes  of  their  corns,  had  seen  more  of 
how  things  go  in  the  world  than  the  Privy  Councillor  with  his  Juno- 
eyes — these  poor  dumb  feet,  incapable  of  expressing  their  immea- 
surable meaning  by  words,  strove  to  make  themselves  intelligible 
by  drumming,  and  they  drummed  so  loudly,  that  I  thereby  came 
near  getting  into  a  terrible  scrape. 

Cursed,  unreflecting  feet !    They  once  acted  as  though  they  were 


—    189  — 

corned  indeed,  when  I  on  a  time  in  Göttingen  sponged  without  sub- 
scribing on  the  lectures  of  Professor  Saalfeld,  and  as  this  learned 
gentleman,  with  his  angular  activity,  jumped  about  here  and  there  in 
his  pulpit,  and  heated  himself  in  order  to  curse  the  Emperor  Napoleon 
in  regular  set  style,  right  and  left — no,  my  poor  feet,  I  cannot  blame 
you  for  drumming  then — indeed,  I  would  not  have  blamed  you  if  in 
your  dumb  naivete"  you  had  expressed  yourselves  by  still  more  ener- 
getic movements.  How  could  I,  the  scholar  of  Le  Grand,  hear  the 
Emperor  cursed  ?  The  Emperor  !  the  Emperor !  the  great  Emperor ! 

When  I  think  of  the  great  Emperor,  all  in  my  memory  again 
becomes  summer-green  and  golden.  A  long  avenue  of  lindens  rises 
blooming  around,  on  the  leafy  twigs  sit  singing  nightingales,  the 
water-fall  rustles,  flowers  are  growing  from  full  round  beds,  dreamily 
nodding  their  fair  heads — I  stood  amidst  them  once  in  wondrous 
intimacy,  the  rouged  tulips,  proud  as  beggars,  condescendingly  greeted 
me,  the  nervous  sick  lilies  nodded  with  woeful  tenderness,  the  tipsy 
red  roses  nodded  at  me  at  first  sight  from  a  distance,  the  night-violets 
sighed — with  the  myrtle  and  laurel  I  was  not  then  acquainted,  for 
they  did  not  entice  with  a  shining  bloom,  but  the  reseda,  with  whom 
I  am  now  on  such  bad  terms,  was  my  very  particular  friend. — I  am 
speaking  of  the  court  garden  of  Düsseldorf,  where  I  often  lay  upon 
the  bank,  and  piously  listened  there  when  Monsieur  Le  Grand  told 
of  the  warlike  feats  of  the  great  Emperor,  beating  meanwhile  the 
marches  which  were  drummed  during  the  deeds,  so  that  I  saw  and 
heard  all  to  the  life.  I  saw  the  passage  over  the  Simplon — the  Em- 
peror in  advance  and  his  brave  grenadiers  climbling  on  behind  him, 
while  the  scream  of  frightened  birds  of  prey  sounded  around,  and 
avalanches  thundered  in  the  distance— I  saw  the  Emperor  with  flag 
in  hand  on  the  bridge  of  Lodi — I  saw  the  Emperor  in  his  gray  cloak 
at  Marengo — I  saw  the  Emperor  mounted  in  the  battle  of  the  Pyra- 
mids— naught  around  save  powder,  smoke  and  Mamelukes — I  saw 
the  Emperor  in  the  battle  of  Austerlitz — ha !  how  the  bullets  whistled 
over  the  smooth,  icy  road !- — I  saw,  I  heard  the  battle  of  Jena — 

dum,  dum,  dum. — I  saw,  I  heard  the  battles  of  Eylau,  of  Wagram  . 

no,  I  could  hardly  stand  it !  Monsieur  Le  Grand  drummed  so  that 
1  nearly  burst  my  own  sheepskin. 


—   190  — 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

But  what  were  my  feelings  when  I  first  saw  with  highly  blest  and 
with  my  own  eyes  him,  Hosannah !  the  Emperor  1 

It  was  exactly  in  the  avenue  of  the  Court  G-arden  at  Düsseldorf. 
As  I  pressed  through  the  gaping  crowd,  thinking  of  the  doughty  deeds 
and  battles  which  Monsieur  Le  Grand  had  drummed  to  me,  my 
heart  beat  the  "  general  march" — yet  at  the  same  time  I  thought  of 
the  police  regulation,  that  no  one  should  dare  under  penalty  of  five 
dollars  fine,  ride  through  the  avenue.  And  the  Emperor  with  his  cortege 
rode  directly  down  the  avenue.  The  trembling  trees  bowed  towards 
him  as  he  advanced,  the  sun-rays  quivered,  frightened,  yet  curiously 
through  the  green  leaves,  and  in  the  blue  heaven  above  there  swam 
visibly  a  golden  star.  The  Emperor  wore  his  invisible-green  uniform 
and  the  little  world-renowned  hat.  He  rode  a  white  palfrey  which 
stepped  with  such  calm  pride,  so  confidently,  so  nobly — had  I  then 
been  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia  I  would  have  envied  that  horse.  The 
Emperor  sat  carelessly,  almost  lazily,  holding  with  one  hand  his 
rein,  and  with  the  other  good  naturedly  patting  the  neck  of  the 
horse. — It  was  a  sunny  marble  hand,  a  mighty  hand — one  of  the  pair 
which  bound  fast  the  many-headed  monster  of  anarchy,  and  reduced 
to  order  the  war  of  races — and  it  good  naturedly  patted  the  neck  of 
the  horse.  Even  the  face  had  that  hue  which  we  find  in  the  marble 
Greek  and  Roman  busts,  the  traits  were  as  nobly  proportioned  as  in 
the  antiques,  and  on  that  countenance  was  plainly  written,  "Thou 
shalt  have  no  Gods  before  me  1"  A  smile,  which  warmed  and  tran- 
quillized every  heart,  flitted  over  the  lips — and  yet  all  knew  that  those 
lips  needed  but  to  whistle — et  la  Prusse  n'existait  plus — those  lips 
needed  but  to  whistle — and  the  entire  clergy  would  have  stopped 
their  ringing  and  singing — those  lips  needed  but  to  whistle — and  the 
entire  holy  Roman  realm  would  have  danced.  It  was  an  eye,  clear  as 
Heaven,  it  could  read  the  hearts  of  men,  it  saw  at  a  glance  all  things 
at  once,  and  as  they  were  in  this  world,  while  we  ordinary  mortals 
see  them  only  one  by  one  and  by  their  shaded  hues.  The  brow  was 
not  so  clear,  the  phantoms  of  future  battles  were  nestling  there,  and 
there  was  a  quiver  which  swept  over  the  brow,  and  those  were  the 
creative  thoughts,  the  great  seven-mile-boots  thoughts,  wherewith 
the  spirit  of  the  Emperor  strode  invisibly  over  the  world — and  I 
believe  that  every  one  of  those  thoughts  would  have  given  to  a 
German  author  full  material  wherewith  to  write,  all  the  days  of  his 


—   191  — 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Emperor  is  dead.  On  a  waste  island  in  the  Indian  Sea  lies 
his  lonely  grave,  and  he  for  whom  the  world  was  too  narrow,  lies 
silently  under  a  little  hillock,  where  five  weeping  willows  hang  their 
green  heads,  and  a  gentle  little  brook,  murmuring  sorrowfully,  ripples 
by.  There  is  no  inscription  on  his  tomb ;  but  Clio,  with  unerring- 
pen,  has  written  thereon  invisible  words,  which  will  resound,  like 
spirit-tones,  through  thousands  of  years. 

Britannia !  the  sea  is  thine.  But  the  sea  hath  not  water  enough  to 
wash  away  the  shame  with  which  the  death  of  that  Mighty  One  hath 
covered  thee.  Not  thy  windy  Sir  Hudson — no,  thou  thyself  wert 
the  Sicilian  bravo  with  whom  perjured  kings  bargained,  that  they 
might  revenge  on  the  man  of  the  people  that  which  the  people  had 
once  inflicted  on  one  of  themselves. — And  he  was  thy  guest,  and  had 
seated  himself  by  thy  hearth. 

Until  the  latest  times  the  boys  of  France  Will  sing  and  tell  of  the 
terrible  hospitality  of  the  Bellerophon,  and  when  those  songs  of 
mockery  and  tears  resound  across  the  strait,  there  will  be  a  blush  on 
the  cheeks  of  every  honorable  Briton.  But  a  day  will  come  when 
this  song  will  ring  thither,  and  there  will  be  no  Britannia  in  exis- 
tence— when  the  people  of  Pride  will  be  humbled  to  the  earth,  when 
Westminster's  monuments  will  be  broken,  and  when  the  royal  dust 
which  they  enclosed  will  be  forgotten. — And  St.  Helena  is  the  Holy 
Grave,  whither  the  races  of  the  East  and  of  the  "West  will  make  their 
pilgrimage  in  ships,  with  pennons  of  many  a  hue,  and  their  hearts 
will  grow  strong*with  great  memories  of  the  deeds  of  the  worldly 
Saviour,  who  suffered  and  died  under  Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  as  it  is  writ- 
ten in  the  evangelists,  Las  Casas,  O'Meara  and  Autommarchi. 

Strange!  A  terrible  destiny  has  already  overtaken  the  three 
greatest  enemies  of  the  Emperor.  Londonderry  has  cut  his  throat, 
Louis  XVIII  has  rotted  away  on  his  throne,  and  Professor  Saalfeld 
is  still,  as  before,  Professor  in  Göttingen. 


—   192  — 


CHAPTER  X. 

It  was  a  clear,  frosty  morning  in  autumn  as  a  young  man,  whose 
appearance  denoted  the  student,  slowly  loitered  through  the  avenue 
of  the  Düsseldorf  Court-Garden,  often,  as  in  child-like  mood,  push- 
ing aside  with  wayward  feet  the  leaves  which  covered  the  ground,  and 
often  sorrowfully  gazing  towards  the  bare  trees,  on  which  a  few  gol- 
den-hued  leaves  still  fluttered  in  the  breeze.  As  he  thus  gazed  up, 
he  thought  on  the  words  of  Glaucus  : 

Like  the  leaves  in  the  forests,  e'en  so  are  the  races  of  mortals ; 
Leaves  are  blown  down  to  the  earth  by  the  wind,  while  others  are 
driven 

Away  by  the  green  budding  wood,  when  fresh  up-liveth  the  spring- 
tide ; 

So  the  races  of  man — this  grows  and  the  other  departeth. 

In  earlier  days  the  youth  had  gazed  with  far  different  eyes  on  the 
same  trees.  When  he  was  a  boy  he  had  there  sought  bird's  nests  or 
summer  chafers,  which  delighted  his  very  soul,  as  they  merrily 
hummed  around,  and  were  glad  in  the  beautiful  world,  and  were  con- 
tented with  a  sap-green  leaf  and  a  drop  of  water,  with  a  warm  sun- 
ray  and  with  the  perfume  of  the  herbage.  In  those  times  the  boy's 
heart  was  as  gay  as  the  fluttering  insects.  But  now  his  heart  had 
grown  older,  its  little  sun-rays  were  quenched,  its  flowers  had  faded, 
even  its  beautiful  dream  of  love  had  grown  dim  ;  in  that  poor  heart 
was  naught  save  wanton  will  and  care,  and  to  say  the  worst — it  was 
my  heart. 

I  had  returned  that  day  to  my  old  father-town,  but  I  would  not 
remain  there  over  night,  and  I  longed  for  Godesberg,  that  I  might 
sit  at  the  feet  of  my  lady  friend  and  tell  of  the  little  Veronica.  I  had 
visited  the  dear  graves.  Of  all  my  living  friends,  I  had  found  but  an 
uncle  and  an  aunt.  Even  when  I  met  once  known  forms  in  the  street, 
they  knew  me  no  more,  and  the  town  itself  gazed  on  me  with  strange 
glances.  Many  houses  were  coloured  anew,  strange  faces  gazed  on 
me  through  the  window-panes,  worn  out  old  sparrows  hopped  on  the 
old  chimneys,  everything  looked  dead  and  yet  fresh,  like  a  salad  grow- 
ing in  a  grave-yard  ;  where  French  was  once  spoken  I  now  heard  the 
Prussian  dialect ;  even  a  little  Prussian  court  had  taken  up  its  retired 
dwelling  there,  and  the  poople  bore  court  titles.   The  hair-dresser  of 


—    103  — 

my  mother  had  now  become  the  Court  Hair-Dresser,  and  there  were 
Court-Tailors,  Court-Shoemakers,  Court-Bed-Bug-Destroyers,  Court- 
Groggeries — the  whole  town  seemed  to  be  s  Court-Hospital  for 
courtly  spiritual  invalids.  Only  the  old  Prince  Elector  knew  me, 
he  still  stood  in  the  same  old  place ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  grown 
thinner.  For  just  because  he  stood  in  the  Market  Place,  he  had  had 
a  full  view  of  all  the  miseries  of  the  time,  and  people  seldom  grow  fat 
on  such  sights.  I  was  as  if  in  a  dream,  and  thought  of  the  legend  of 
the  enchanted  city,  and  hastened  out  of  the  gate,  lest  I  should  awake 
too  soon.  I  missed  many  a  tree  in  the  court-garden,  and  many  had 
grown  crooked  with  age,  and  the  four  great  poplars  which  once  seemed 
to  me  like  green  giants,  had  become  smaller.  Pretty  girls  were 
walking  here  and  there,  dressed  as  gaily  as  wandering  tulips.  And  I 
had  known  these  tulips  when  they  were  but  little  bulbs  ;  for  ah !  they 
were  the  neighbors'  children  with  whom  I  had  once  played  "  Princess 
in  the  Tower."  But  the  fair  maidens,  whom  I  had  once  known  as 
blooming  roses  were  now  faded  roses,  and  in  many  a  high  brow  whose 
pride  had  once  thrilled  my  heart,  Saturn  had  cut  deep  wrinkles  with 
his  scythe.  And  now  for  the  first  time,  and  alas  !  too  late,  I  under- 
stood what  those  glances  meant,  which  they  had  once  cast  on  the 
adolescent  boy ;  for  I  had  meanwhile  in  other  lands  fathomed  the 
meaning  of  similar  glances  in  other  lovely  eyes.  I  was  deeply  moved 
by  the  humble  bow  of  a  man,  whom  I  had  once  known  as  wealthy  and 
respectable,  and  who  had  since  become  a  beggar.  Everywhere  in 
the  world,  we  see  that  men  when  they  once  begin  to  fall,  do  so  accord- 
ing to  Newton's  theory,  ever  faster  and  faster  in  ratio  as  they  descend 
to  misery.  One,  however,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  changed 
was  the  little  baron,  who  tripped  merrily  as  of  old  through  the  Court 
Garden,  holding  with  one  hand  his  left  coat-skirt  on  highland  with 
the  other  swinging  hither  and  thither  his  light  cane  ; — he  still  had 
the  same  genial  face  as  of  old,  its  rosy  bloom  now  somewhat  concen- 
trated towards  the  nose,  but  he  had  the  same  nine-pin  hat  as  of  old, 
and  the  same  old  queue  behind,  only  that  the  hairs  which  peeped  from  it 
were  now  white  instead  of  black.  But  merry  as  the  old  baron  seemed, 
it  was  still  evident  that  he  had  suffered  much  sorrow, — his  face  would 
fain  conceal  it,  but  the  white  hairs  of  his  queue  betrayed  him  behind 
his  back.  Yet  the  queue  itself  seemed  striving  to  lie,  so  merrily  did 
it  shake. 

I  was  not  weary,  but  a  fancy  seized  me  to  sit  once  more  on  the 
wooden  bench,  on  which  I  had  once  carved  the  name  of  my  love.  1 

n 


—    191  — 


could  hardly  discover  it  among  the  many  new  names,  which  had  since 
been  cut  around.  Ah  !  once  I  slept  upon  this  bench,  and  dreamed 
of  happiness  and  love.  "  Dreams  are  foams  and  gleams."  And  the 
old  plays  of  childhood  came  again  to  my  soul,  and  with  them  old  and 
beautiful  stories !  but  a  new  treacherous  game,  and  a  new  terrible 
tale  ever  resounded  through  all,  and  it  was  the  story  of  two  poor  souls 
who  were  false  to  each  other,  and  went  so  far  in  their  untruth,  that 
they  were  at  last  unfaithful  to  the  good  God  himself.  It  is  a  bad, 
sad  story,  and  when  one  has  nothing  better  on  hand  to  do,  he  can  well 
weep  over  it.  Oh,  Lord  !  once  the  world  was  so  beautiful,  and  the 
birds  sang  thy  eternal  praise,  and  little  Veronica  looked  at  me  with 
silent  eyes,  and  we  sat  by  the  marble  statue  before  the  castle  court ; 
— on  one  side  lies  an  old  ruined  castle,  wherein  ghosts  wander,  and 
at  night  a  headless  dame  in  long,  trailing  black-silken  garments  sweeps 
around  :^-on  the  other  side  is  a  high,  white  dwelling  in  whose  upper 
rooms  gay  pictures  gleamed  beautifully  in  their  golden  frames,  while 
below  stood  thousands  of  great  books  which  Veronica  and  I  beheld 
with  longing,  when  the  good  Ursula  lifted  us  up  to  the  window. — In 
later  years  when  I  had  become  a  great  boy,  I  climbed  every  day  to 
the  very  top  of  the  library  ladder,  and  brought  down  the  topmost 
books,  and  read  in  them  so  long,  that  finally  I  feared  nothing — least 
of  all  ladies  without  heads — and  became  so  wise  that  I  forgot  all  the 
old  games  and  stories  and  pictures  and  little  Veronica — whose  very 
name  I  also  forgot. 

But  while  I,  sitting  upon  the  bench  in  the  Court-garden,  dreamed 
my  way  back  into  the  past,  there  was  a  sound  behind  me  of  the  con- 
fused voices  of  men  lamenting  the  ill  fortune  of  the  poor  French  soldiers, 
who  having  been  taken  prisoners  in  the  Russian  war  and  sent  to 
Siberia,  had  there  been  kept  prisoners  for  many  a  long  year,  though 
peace  had  been  re-established,  and  who  now  were  returning  home. 
As  I  looked  up,  I  beheld  in  reality  several  of  these  orphan  children 
of  Fame.  Through  their  tattered  uniforms  peeped  naked  misery, 
deep  sorrowing  eyes  were  couched  in  their  desolate  faces,  and  though 
mangled,  weary,  and  mostly  lame,  something  of  the  military  manner 
was  still  visible  in  their  mien.  Singularly  enough,  they  were  preceded 
by  a  drummer  who  tottered  along  with  a  drum,  and  I  shuddered  as  I 
recalled  the  old  legend  of  soldiers,  who  had  fallen  in  battle,  and  who 
by  night  rising  again  from  their  graves  on  the  battle-field,  and  with 
the  drummer  at  their  head,  marched  back  to  their  native  city.  And 
of  them  the  old  ballad  sings  thus  : 


—    195  — 


"  He  beat  on  the  drum  with  might  and  main, 
To  their  old  night-quarters  they  go  again  ; 
Through  the  lighted  street  they  come ; 
Trallerie — trallerei — trallera, 
They  march  before  Sweetheart's  home. 

Thus  the  dead  return  ere  break  of  day, 
Like  tombstones  white  in  their  cold  array, 

And  the  drummer  he  goes  before  ; 

Trallerie — trallerei — trallera, 
And  we  see  them  come  no  more." 

Truly  the  poor  French  drummer  seemed  to  have  risen  but  half 
repaired  from  the  grave.  He  was  but  a  little  shadow  in  a  dirty 
patched  gray  capote,  a  dead  yellow  countenance,  with  a  great  mus- 
tache which  hung  down  sorrowfully  over  his  faded  lips,  his  eyes  were 
like  burnt  out  tinder,  in  which  but  a  few  sparks  still  gleamed,  and 
yet  by  one  of  those  sparks  I  recognized  Monsieur  Le  Grand. 

He  too  recognized  me  and  drew  me  to  the  turf,  and  we  sat  down 
together  as  of  old,  when  he  taught  me  on  the  drum  French  and  Modern 
History.  He  had  still  the  well  known  old  drum,  and  I  could  not  suffi- 
ciently wonder  how  he  has  preserved  it  from  Russian  plunderers.  And 
he  drummed  again  as  of  old,  but  without  speaking  a  word.  But  though 
his  lips  were  firmly  pressed  together,  his  eyes  spoke  all  the  more,  flash- 
ing fiercely  and  victoriously,  as  he  drummed  the  old  marches.  The 
poplars  near  us  trembled,  as  he  again  thundered  forth  the  red  march 
of  the  guillotine.  And  he  drummed  as  before,  the  old  battles,  the 
deeds  of  the  Emperor,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  drum  itself  were 
a  living  creature  which  rejoiced  to  speak  out  its  inner  soul.  I  heard 
once  more  the  cannon  thunder,  the  whistling  of  balls,  the  riot  of 
battle,  the  death  rage  of  the  Guards — I  saw  once  more  the  waving 
flags,  again,  the  Emperor  on  his  steed — but  little  by  little  there  fell  a 
sad  tone  in  amid  the  most  stirring  confusion,  sounds  rang  from  the 
drum,  in  which  the  wildest  hurrahs  and  the  most  fearful  grief  were 
mysteriously  mingled;  it  seemed  a  march  of  victory  and  a  march  of 
death.  Le  Grand's  eyes  opened  spirit-like  and  wide,  and  I  saw  in 
them  nothing  but  a  broad  white  field  of  ice  covered  with  corpses — it 
was  the  battle  of  Moscow. 

I  had  never  imagined  that  the  hard  old  drum  could  give  forth  such 
wailing  sounds  as  Monsieur  Le  Grand  had  drawn  from  it.  They 
were  tears  which  he  drummed,  and  they  sounded  ever  softer  and 


—    196  — 

softer,  and  like  a  troubled  echo,  deep  sighs  broke  from  Le  Grand's 
breast.  And  they  became  ever  more  languid  and  ghost-like,  his  dry 
hands  trembled,  as  if  from  frost,  he  sat  as  in  a  dream,  and  stirred  with 
his  drum-stick  nothing  but  the  air,  and  seemed  listening  to  voices  far 
away,  and  at  last  he  gazed  on  me  with  a  deep — oh,  so  deep  and 
entreating  a  glance — I  understood  him — and  then  his  head  sunk 
down  on  the  drum. 

In  this  life  Monsieur  Le  Grand  never  drummed  more.  And  his 
drum  never  gave  forth  another  sound,  for  it  was  not  destined  to 
serve  the  enemies  of  liberty  for  their  servile  roll  calls.  I  had  well 
understood  the  last  entreating  glance  of  Le  Grand,  and  I  at  once 
drew  the  rapier  from  my  cane,  and  with  it  pierced  the  drum. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Du  sublime  au  ridicule  il  tüy  a  qu'un  pas,  Madame  ! 

But  life  is  in  reality  so  terribly  serious,  that  it  would  be  insupport- 
able were  it  not  for  these  unions  of  the  pathetic  and  the  comic,  as  o*:» 
poets  well  know.  Aristophanes  only  exhibits  the  most  harrow- 
ing forms  of  human  madness  in  the  laughing  mirror  of  wit,  Goethe 
only  presumes  to  set  forth  the  fearful  pain  of  thought  comprehending 
its  own  nothingness  in  the  doggrel  of  a  puppet  show,  and  Shaks- 
feare  puts  the  most  agonizing  lamentations  on  the  misery  of  the 
world  in  the  mouth  of  a  fool,  who  meanwhile  rattles  his  cap  and  bells 
in  all  the  nervous  suffering  of  pain. 

They  have  all  learned  from  the  great  First  Poet,  who,  in  his  World 
Tragedy  in  thousands  of  acts,  knows  how  to  carry  liumor  to  the  high- 
est point,  as  we  see  every  day.  After  the  departure  of  the  heroes, 
the  clowns  and  graciosos  enter  with  their  baubles  and  lashes,  and  after 
the  bloody  scenes  of  the  Revolution,  there  came  waddling  on  the  stage 
the  fat  Bourbons,  with  their  stale  jokes  and  tender  'legitimate'  bon 
mots,  and  the  old  noblesse  with  their  starved  laughter  hopped  merrily 
before  them,  while  behind  all,  swept  the  pious  Capuchins  with  can- 
dles, cross  and  banners  of  the  Church.  Yes — even  in  the  highest 
pathos  of  the  "World  Tragedy,  bits  of  fun  slip  in.  It  may  be  that 
the  desperate  republican,  who,  like  a  Brutus,  plunged  a  knife  to  his 
heart,  first  smelt  it  to  sec  whether  some  one  had  not  split  a  herring 
with  it — and  on  this  great  stage  of  the  world  all  passes  exactly  the 


—   i97  — 


same  as  on  our  beggarly  boards.  On  it,  too,  there  are  tipsy  heroes, 
kings  who  forget  their  parts,  scenes  which  obstinately  stay  up  in  the 
air,  prompter's  voices  sounding  above  everything,  danseuses  who 
create  astonishing  effects  with  their  legs,  and  above  all  eosiumes 
which  are  and  ever  will  be  the  main  thing.  And  high  in  Heaven,  in 
the  first  row  of  the  boxes  sit  the  lovely  angels,  and  keep  their  lory 
nettes  on  us  poor  sinners  commedianizing  here  down  below,  and  the 
blessed  Lord  himself  sits  seriously  in  his  splendid  seat,  and,  perhaps, 
finds  it  dull,  or  calculates  that  this  theatre  cannot  be  kept  up  much 
longer  because  this  one  gets  too  high  a  salary,  and  that  one  too 
little,  and  that  they  altogether  play  far  too  indifferently. 

Du  sublime  au  ridicule  il  n't/  a  qu'un  pas,  Madame  !  As  I  ended 
the  last  chapter,  narrating  to  you  how  Monsiur  Le  Grand  died,  and 
how  I  conscientiously  executed  the  iestamentum  militare  which  lay  in 
his  last  glance,  some  one  knocked  at  my  room  door,  and  there  entered 
an  old  woman,  wTho  asked,  pleasantly,  if  I  were  not  a  Doctor  ?  And 
as  I  assented,  she  asked  me  in  a  friendly,  patronizing  tone  to  go  with 
her  to  her  house  that  I  might  there  cut  the  corns  of  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
The  German  censors  of  the  press — 


blockheads 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Madame  !  under  Leda's  productive  hemispheres  lay  in  embryo  the 
whole  Trojan  world,  and  you  could  never  understand  the  far-famed 
tears  of  Priam,  if  I  did  not  first  tell  you  of  the  ancient  eggs  of  the 
Swan.  And  I  pray  you,  do  not  complain  of  my  digressions.  In 
every  foregoing  and  foregone  chapter,  there  is  not  a  line  which  does 
not  belong  to  the  business  in  hand.- — I  write  in  bonds ;  I  avoid  all 

IT* 


—    198  — 


superfluity  ;  I  ever  and  often  neglect  the  necessary — for  instance,  I 
have  not  regularly  cited — I  do  not  mean  spirits,  but  on  the  contrary, 
beings  which  are  often  quite  spiritless,  that  is  to  say,  authors — and 
yet  the  citation  of  old  and  new  books  is  the  chief  pleasure  of  a  young 
author,  and  a  few  fundamentally  erudite  quotations  often  adorn  the 
entire  man.  Never  believe,  Madame,  that  I  am  wanting  in  knowledge 
of  titles  of  books.  Moreover,  I  have  caught  the  knack  of  those  great 
souls  who  know  how  to  pick  corianders  out  of  biscuit,  and  citations 
from  college  lecture  books  ;  and  I  can  also  tell  whence  Bartle  brought 
the  new  wine.  Nay — in  case  of  need,  I  can  negotiate  a  loan  of  quo- 
tations from  my  learned  friends.    My  friend  G  ,  in  Berlin  is,  so 

to  speak  a  little  Rothschild  in  quotations,  and  will  gladly  lend  me  a 
few  millions,  and  if  he  does  not  happen  to  have  them  about  him,  I 
can  easily  find  some  cosmopolite  spiritual  bankers  who  have.  But 
what  need  of  loans  have  I,  who  am  a  man  who  stands  well  with  the 
world,  and  have  my  annual  income  of  10,000  quotations  to  spend  at 
will  ?  I  have  even  discovered  the  art  of  passing  off  forged  quota- 
tions for  genuine.  If  any  wealthy  literary  man  would  like  to  buy 
this  secret,  I  will  cheerfully  sell  it  for  nineteen  thousand  current 
dollars — or  will  trade  with  him.  Another  of  my  discoveries  I  will 
impart  gratis  for  the  benefit  of  literature. 

I  hold  it  to  be  an  advisable  thing  when  quoting  from  an  obscure 
author  to  invariably  give  the  number  of  his  house. 

These  "  good  men  and  bad  musicians,"  as  the  orchestra  is  termed 
in  Ponce  de  Leon — these  unknown  authors  almost  invariably  still 
possess  a  copy  of  their  long  out-of-print  works,  and  to  hunt  up  this 
latter  it  is  necessary  to  know  the  number  of  their  houses.  If  I 
wanted,  for  example,  to  find  "  Spitta's  Song  Book  for  Travelling 
Journeymen  Mechanics," — my  dear  Madame  where  would  you  look 
for  the  book  ?    But  if  quoted  : 

"  Vide — Song  Book  for  Travelling  Journeyman  apprentices,  by  P. 
SriTTA ;  Lüneburg,  Lüner  Street,  No.  2,  right  hand,  around  the 
corner." 

And  so  you  could,  if  it  were  worth  your  while,  Madame,  hunt  up 
the  book.    But  it  is  not  worth  the  while. 

Moreover,  Madame,  you  can  have  no  idea  of  the  facility  with  which 
I  quote.  Everywhere  do  I  discover  opportunities  to  parade  my  pro- 
found pedantry.  If  I  chance  to  mention  eating,  I  at  once  remark  in 
a  note  that  the  Greeks,  Romans  and  Hebrews  also  ate — I  quote  all 
the  costly  dishes  which  were  prepared  by  Lucullus's  cook — woe  me, 
that  I  was  born  fifteen  hundred  years  too  late  ! — I  also  remark,  that 


—    199  — 

these  meals  were  called  this,  that,  or  the  other  by  the  Romans,  and 
that  the  Spartans  ate  black  broth.  After  all,  it  is  well  that  I  did 
not  live  in  those  days,  for  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  terrible  than  if 
I,  poor  devil,  had  been  a  Spartan.  Soup  is  my  favourite  dish. 
Madame,  I  have  thought  of  going  next  year  to  London,  but  if  it  is 
really  true,  that  no  soup  is  to  be  had  there,  a  deep  longing  will  soon 
drive  me  back  to  the  soup-flesh-pots  of  the  Fatherland.  I  could  also 
dilate  by  the  hour  on  the  cookery  of  the  ancient  Hebrews,  and  also 
descend  into  the  kitchen  of  the  J ews  of  the  present  day.  I  may  cite 
apropos  of  this  the  entire  Sfeinweg.  I  might  also  allege  the  refined 
manner  in  which  many  Berlin  Savans  have  expressed  themselves 
relative  to  Jewish  eating,  which  would  lead  me  to  the  other  excel- 
lencies and  pre-eminencies  of  the  chosen  people,  to  which  we  are 
indebted,  as  for  instance,  their  invention  of  bills  of  exchange  and 
Christianity — but  hold  !  it  will  hardly  do  for  me  to  praise  the  latter  too 
highly — not  having  as  yet  made  much  use  of  it — and  I  believe,  that 
the  Jews  themselves  have  not  profited  so  much  by  it  as  by  their 
bills  of  exchange.  While  on  the  Jews  I  could  appropriately  quote 
Tacitus — he  says  that  they  honoured  asses  in  their  temples — and 
what  a  field  of  rich  erudition  and  quotation  opens  on  us  here  !  How 
many  a  note-worthy  thing  can  be  adduced  on  ancient  asses  as 
opposed  to  the  modern.  How  intelligent  were  the  former,  and,  ah  ! 
how  stupid  are  the  latter.  How  reasonably — for  instance — spoke 
the  ass  of  B.  Balaam. 

Vide  Pentat.    Lib.       —      —      —  — 

Madame,  I  have  not  the  work  just  at  hand,  and  will  here  leave  a 
hiatus  to  be  filled  at  a  convenient  opportunity.  On  the  other  hand, 
to  confirm  my  assertion  of  the  dulness,  tameness,  and  stupidity  of 
modern  asses,  I  may  allege 

Vide.     —         —         —         —         —         —  — 


—  —  no,  I  will  leave  these  quotations  also  unquoted,  other- 
wise I  myself  will  be  cited,  namely,  injariarum  or  for  scan.  mag. 
The  modern  asses  are  great  asses.  The  antique  asses,  who  had 
reached  such  a  pitch  of  refinement 

Vide  Gesneri  de  antiqiia  lionestate  asinorum. 

(In  comment.  Gotting  T.  II".  p.  32.) 

—  would  turn  in  their  graves  could  they  hear  how  people  talk  about 
their  descendants.  Once  "Ass"  was  an  honourable  title,  signifying 
as  much  as  "  Court-Councillor"  "  Baron,"  "  Doctor  of  Philosophy," 


-    200  — 


—  Jacob  compared  his  sou  Issachar  to  one,  Homer  his  hero  Ajax, 
and  now  we  compare  Mr.  von    *******    to  the  same ! 

Madame,  while  speaking  of  such  asses  I  could  siuk  deep  into  literary 
history,  and  mention  all  the  great  men  who  ever  were  in  love,  for 
example  Abelardus,  Picus  Mirandola,  Borbonius,  Curtesius, 
Angelus  Politianus,  Raymondus  Lullius  and  Henricus  Heineus. 
While  on  Love  I  could  mention  all  the  great  men  who  never  smoked 
tobacco,  as  for  instance  Cicero,  Justinian,  Goethe,  Hugo,  I  myself, 
—  —  by  chance  it  happens  that  we  are  all  five  a  sort  of  half  and 
half  lawyers  —  Mabillion  could  not  for  an  instant  endure  the 
piping  of  another,  for  in  his  Itinere  Germanico,  he  complains  as 
regarded  the  German  taverns,  "  quod  molestus  ipsi  fuent  tabaci  grave 
olentis  foetor."  On  the  other  hand  very  great  men  have  manifested 
an  extraordinary  partiality  for  tobacco.  Raphael  Thorus  wrote  a 
hymn  in  its  praise  —  —  Madame,  you  may  not  perhaps  be  aware 
that  Isaac  Elzevir  published  it  in  1628,  at  Leyden,  in  quarto  —  and 
Ludovicus  Kinschot  wrote  an  oration  in  verses  on  the  same  subject. 
GrjEvius  has  even  composed  a  sonnet  on  the  soothing  herb,  and  the 
great  Boxhornius  also  loved  tobacco.  Bayle  in  his  Diet  Hist,  et 
Criiiq.  remarks  of  him  that  in  smoking  he  wore  a  hat  with  a  broad 
brim,  in  the  fore  part  of  which  he  had  a  hole,  through  which  the  pipe 
was  stuck  that  it  might  not  hinder  his  studies.  Apropos  of  Box- 
hornius, I  might  cite  all  the  great  literati  who  were  threatened  with 
bucks'  horns,  and  who  ran  away  in  terror.  But  I  will  only  mention 
Joh.  Georg  Martius:  de  fiuja  lileratorum,  et  cetera,  etc.  &c.  If  we 
go  through  history,  Madame,  we  find  that  all  great  men  have  been 
obliged  to  run  away  once  in  their  lives  :  Lot,  Tarquin,  Moses,  Jupi- 
ter, Madame  de  Stael,  Nebuchadnezzar,  Benjowsky,  Mahomet,  the 
whole  Prussian  Army,  Gregory  VII.,  Rabbi  Jizchak  Abarbanel, 

Rousseau  to  which  I  could  add  very  many  other  names,  as  for 

instance  those  whose  names  stand  on  the  Black  Board  of  the 
Exchange.* 

So,  Madame,  you  see  that  I  am  not  wanting  in  well  grounded  erudi- 
tion and  profundity.  Only  in  Systematology  am  I  a  little  behindhand. 
As  a  genuine  German,  I  ought  to  have  begun  this  book  with  a  full  expla- 
nation of  its  title,  as  is  usual  in  the  holy  Roman  Empire,  by  custom 


*In  some  German  cities  the  names  of  absconding  bankrupts  are  permanently  placarded 
on  the  Exchange  In  America,  such  names  are  published  in  a  much  more  original 
manner,  viz.  by  changing  them  into  verbs  synonymous  of  "  grabbing  and  bolting,"  e.  g. 
Tu  Swartwout,  to  Schuylerize. 


—   201  — 


and  by  prescription.  Phidias,  it  is  true,  made  no  preface  to  his 
Jupiter,  as  little  to  the  Medicean  Yenus — I  have  regarded  her  from 
every  point  of  view,  without  finding  the  slightest  introduction — but 
the  old  Greeks  were  Greeks,  and  when  a  man  is  a  decent,  honest, 
honourable  German,  he  cannot  lay  aside  his  German  nature,  and  I 
must  accordingly  '  hold  forth'  in  regular  order,  on  the  title  of  my  book. 

Madame,  I  shall  consequently  proceed  to  speak 

I.  Of  Ideas. 

A.  Of  Ideas  in  general, 
a.  Of  reasonable  Ideas. 

B.  Of  unreasonable  Ideas. 
;,.  Of  ordinary  Ideas. 

j8.  Of  Ideas  covered  with  green  leather. 
These  are  again  divided  into  —   —   —    as  will  appear  in  due 
time  and  place. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

Madame,  have  you  on  the  whole,  an  idea  of  an  idea  ?  'What  is  an 
idea  ?  "  There  are  some  good  ideas  in  the  build  of  this  coat,"  said 
my  tailor  to  me  as  he  with  earnest  attention  gazed  on  the  overcoat, 
which  dates  in  its  origin  from  my  Berlin  dandy  days,  and  from  which 
a  respectable,  quiet  dressing-gown  is  now  to  be  manufactured.  My 

washerwoman  complains  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  S         has  been 

putting  "  ideas"  into  the  head  of  her  daughter,  which  have  made  her 
foolish  and  unreasonable.  The  coachman,  Pattensen,  grumbles  out 
on  every  occasion,  "  That's  an  idea !  that's  an  idea !"  Yesterday 
evening  he  was  regularly  vexed  when  I  inquired  what  sort  of  a 
thing  he  imagined  an  idea  to  be  ?    And  vexedly  did  he  growl,  "  Nil, 

Nu, — an  idea  is  an  idea! — an  idea  is  any  d  d  nonsense  that  a 

man  gets  into  his  head."  It  is  in  this  significaion  that  the  word  is 
used  as  the  title  of  a  book,  by  the  Court-Counsellor  Heeren  in 
Göttingen. 

The  coachman,  Pattensen,  is  a  man  who  can  find  his  way  through 
night  and  mist  over  the  broad  Llineburger  Heath ; — the  Court  Coun- 
sellor, Heeren,  is  one  who,  with  equally  cunning  instinct,  can  discover 
the  ancient  caravan  road  to  the  East,  and  plods  on  thither  as  safely 
and  as  patiently  as  any  camel  of  antiquity.  We  can  trust  such  peo- 
ple, and  follow  them  without  doubt,  and  therefore  I  have  entitled  this 
book,  "  Ideas." 


—    202  — 


But  the  title  of  the  book  signifies,  on  that  account,  as  little  as  the 
title  of  its  author.  It  was  chosen  by  him  under  any  inspiration  save 
that  of  pride,  and  should  be  interpreted  to  signify  anything  but 
vanity.  Accept,  Madame,  my  most  sorrowful  assurance  that  I  am 
not  vain.  This  remark — as  you  yourself  were  about  to  remark — is 
necessary.  My  friends,  as  well  as  divers  more  or  less  contemptible 
contemporaries,  have  fully  taken  care  of  that  in  advance  of  you.  You 
know,  Madame,  that  old  women  are  accustomed  to  take  children 
down  a  little  when  any  one  praised  their  beauty,  lest  praise  might 
hurt  the  little  darlings.  You  remember,  too,  Madame,  that  in  Eome, 
when  any  one  who  had  gained  a  military  triumph  and  rode  like  a  god, 
crowned  with  glory  and  arrayed  in  purple,  on  his  golden  chariot  with 
white  horses,  from  the  Campus  Martins,  amid  a  festal  train  of  lictors, 
musicians,  dancers,  priests,  slaves,  elephants,  trophy-bearers,  consuls, 
senators,  soldiers  :  then  behind  him  the  vulgar  mob  sang  all  manner 
of  mocking  songs. — And  you  know,  Madame,  that  in  our  beloved 
Germany  there  are  many  old  women  and  a  very  great  vulgar  mob. 

As  I  intimated,  Madame,  the  ideas  here  alluded  to  are  as  remote 
from  those  of  Plato  as  Athens  from  Güttingen,  and  you  should  no 
more  form  undue  expectations  as  to  the  book  than  as  to  its  author. 
In  fact,  how  the  latter  could  ever  have  excited  anything  of  the  sort 
is  as  incomprehensible  to  me  as  to  my  friends.  The  Countess  Julia 
explains  the  matter  by  assuring  us,  that  when  he  says  anything  really 
witty  and  original,  he  only  does  it  to  humbug  the  world,  and  that  he 
is  in  fact  as  stupid  as  any  other  mortal.  That  is  false — I  do  not 
humbug  at  all — I  sing  just  as  my  bill  grows.  I  write  in  all  innocence 
and  simplicity  whatever  comes  into  my  head,  and  it  is  not  my  fault 
if  that  happens  to  be  something  dashed  with  genius.  At  any  rate,  1 
have  better  luck  in  writing  than  in  the  Altona  Lottery — I  wish  that 
it  was  the  other  way — and  there  come  from  my  pen  many  heart- 
stunners — many  choirs  of  thought — all  of  which  is  done  by  the  Lord  ; 
for  He  who  has  denied  to  the  most  devoted  psfjlm-makers  and  moral 
poets  all  beautiful  thoughts  and  all  literary  reputation,  lest  they 
should  be  praised  too  much  by  their  earthly  fellow-creatures,  and 
thereby  forget  heaven,  where  the  angels  have  already  engaged  board 
for  them  in  advance ; — He,  I  say,  provides  us  other  profane,  sinful, 
heretical  authors,  for  whom  heaven  is  as  good  as  nailed  up,  all  the 
more  with  admirable  ideas  and  earthly  fame,  and  this  indeed  from 
divine  grace  and  mercy,  so  that  the  poor  souls,  since  they  are  really 
here,  be  not  altogether  wanting,  and  that  they  may  at  least  enjoy  upon 
earth  some  of  that  joy  which  is  denied  to  them  in  heaven. 


—    203  — 


Vide  Goethe  and  the  tract-writers. 

You  consequently  see,  Madame,  that  you  can,  without  distrust, 
read  my  writings,  as  they  set  forth  the  grace  and  mercy  of  God.  I 
write  in  blind  reliance  on  his  omnipotence.  I  am  in  this  respect  a 
true  Christian  author,  and,  to  speak  like  Gubitz,  even  in  this  present 
paragraph  do  not  know  exactly  how  I  am  going  to  bring  it  to  an 
end,  and  to  effect  it  I  trust  entirely  to  the  aid  of  the  Lord.  And 
how  could  I  write  without  this  pious  reliance? — for  lo!  even  now 
there  stands  before  me  the  devil  from  Langhoff's  printing  office, 
waiting  for  copy,  and  the  new-born  word  wanders  warm  and  wet  to 
the  press,  and  what  I  at  this  instant  think  and  feel,  may  to-morrow 
be  waste  paper. 

It  is  all  very  fine,  Madame,  to  remind  me  of  the  Horatian  nonum 
prematur  in  annum.  This  rule,  like  many  others,  may  be  very  pretty 
in  theory,  but  is  worth  little  in  practice.  When  Horace  gave  to 
the  author  that  celebrated  precept,  to  let  his  works  lie  nine  years  in 
the  desk,  he  should  also  have  given  with  it  a  receipt  for  living  nine 
years  without  food.  While  Horace  was  inventing  this  advice,  he 
sat,  in  all  probability,  at  the  table  of  Maecenas  eating  roast  turkey 
with  truffles,  pheasant-puddings  with  venison  sauce,  ribs  of  larks 
with  mangled  turnips,  peacock's  tongues,  Indian  bird's-nests,  and 
the  Lord  knows  what  all,  and  everything  gratis  at  that.  But  we,  the 
unlucky  ones,  born  too  late,  live  in  another  sort  of  times.  Our  Mae- 
cenases have  an  altogether  different  set  of  principles ;  they  believe 
that  authors,  like  medlars,  are  best  after  they  have  lain  some  time  on 
straw,  they  believe  that  literary  hounds  are  spoiled  for  hunting  similes 
and  thoughts  if  they  are  fed  too  high,  and  when  they  do  take  it  into 
their  heads  to  give  to  some  one  a  feed  it  is  generally  the  worst  dog 
who  gets  the  biggest  piece, — some  fawning  spaniel  who  licks  the  hand, 
or  diminutive  "  King  Charles"  who  knows  how  to  cuddle  up  into  a 
lady's  perfumed  lap,  or  some  patient  puppy  of  a  poodle,  who  has 
learned  some  bread-earning  science,  and  who  can  fetch  and  carry, 
dance  and  drum.  While  I  write  this  my  little  pug-dog  behind  me 
begins  to  bark.  Be  still  there,  Ami!  I  did  not  mean  you,  for  you 
love  me,  and  accompany  your  master  about,  in  need  and  danger,  and 
you  would  die  on  my  grave,  as  true-heartedly  as  many  other  German 
dogs,  who,  turned  away,  lie  before  the  gates  of  Germany,  and  hunger 
and  whine — excuse  me,  Madame,  for  digressing,  merely  to  vindicate  the 
honor  of  my  dog  : — I  now  return  to  the  Horatian  rule  and  its  inap- 
plicability in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  when  poets  are  compelled  tu 
make  cream-pot  love  to  the  Muses — ma  foi,  Madame,  I  could  never 


—    2G4  — 


observe  that  rule  for  four  and  twenty  hours,  let  alone  nine  years,  mjf 
belly  has  no  appreciation  of  the  beauties  of  immortality.  I  have 
thought  the  matter  over  and  concluded  that  it  is  better  to  be  only 
half  immortal  and  altogether  fat,  and  if  Voltaire  was  willing  to  give 
three  hundred  years  of  his  eternal  fame  for  one  good  digestion,  so 
would  I  give  twice  as  much  for  the  dinner  itself.  And  oh,  what 
lovely  beautiful  eating  there  is  in  this  world  !  The  philosopher  Pan- 
gloss  is  right,  it  is  the  best  world !  But  one  must  have  money  in  this 
best  of  worlds.  Money  in  the  pocket,  not  manuscripts  in  the  desk. 
Mr.  Marr,  mine  host  of  "  the  King  of  England,"  is  himself  an  author 
and  also  knows  the  Horatian  rule,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  if  I 
wished  to  put  it  into  practice  he  would  feed  me  for  nine  years. 

And  why  in  fact  should  I  practise  it  ?  I  have  so  much  which 
is  good  to  write  of,  that  I  have  no  occasion  to  fritter  away  time 
over  "  tight  papers."  So  long  as  my  heart  is  full  of  love,  and,  the 
heads  of  my  fellow  mortals  full  of  folly,  I  shall  never  be  hot  pressed 
for  writing  material.  And  my  heart  will  ever  love  so  long  as  there 
are  women,  should  it  cool  over  one,  it  will  immediately  fire  up  over 
another,  and  as  the  King  never  dies  in  France,  so  the  Queen  never 
dies  in  my  heart,  where  the  word  is,  la  reine  est  morte,  vive  la  reine  ! 
And  in  like  manner  the  folly  of  my  fellow  mortals  will  live  for  ever. 
For  there  is  but  one  wisdom,  and  it  hath  its  fixed  limits,  but  there 
are  a  thousand  illimitable  follies.  The  learned  casuist  and  carer  for 
souls,  Schupp,  even  saith  that  in  the  world  are  more  fools  than  human 
beings. 

Vide  Schupp's  Instructive  Writings,  p.  1121, 

If  we  remember  that  the  great  Schuppius  lived  in  Hamburg,  we 
may  find  that  his  statistical  return  was  not  exaggerated.  I  am  now 
in  the  same  place,  and  may  say  that  I  really  become  cheerful  when  I 
reflect  that  all  these  fools  whom  I  see  here,  can  be  used  in  my  writings, 
they  are  cash  down,  ready  money.  I  feel  like  a  diamond  in  cotton. 
The  Lord  hath  blessed  me,  the  fool-crop  has  turned  out  uncommonly 
well  this  year,  and  like  a  good  landlord  I  consume  only  a  few  at  a 
time,  and  lay  up  the  best  for  the  future.  People  see  me  out  walking, 
and  wonder  that  I  am  jolly  and  cheerful.  Like  a  rich,  plump  merchant 
who  rubbing  his  hands  with  genial  joy  wanders  here  and  there  amid 
chests,  bales,  boxes,  and  casks,  even  so  do  I  wander  around  among 
my  people.  Ye  are  all  mine  own  I  Ye  are  all  equally  dear  to  me, 
and  I  love  ye,  as  ye  yourselves  love  yonr  own  gold,  and  that  is  more 
than  a  little.  Oh  !  how  I  laughed  from  my  heart  when  I  lately 
heard  that  one  of  my  people  had  asserted  with  concern  that  he  knew 


—    205  — 

not  how  I  could  live — or  what  means  I  had — and  yet  he  himself  is  such 
a  first-rate  fool  that  I  could  live  from  him  alone  as  on  a  capital.  Many 
a  fool  is,  however,  to  me  not  only  ready  money,  but  I  have  already  de- 
termined in  my  own  mind  what  is  to  be  done  with  the  cash  which  I 
intend  to  write  out  of  him.  Thus,  for  instance,  from  a  certain,  well-lined, 
plump  millionaire,  I  shall  write  me  a  certain,  well-lined,  plump  arm-chair, 
of  that  sort  which  the  French  call  chaise  percee.  From  his  fat  million- 
airess I  will  buy  me  a  horse.  When  I  see  the  plump  old  gentleman — 
a  camel  will  get  into  heaven  before  that  man  would  ever  go  through  the 
eye  of  a  needle — when  I  see  him  waddling  along  on  the  Promenade, 
a  wondrous  feeling  steals  over  me,  I  salute  him  involuntarily,  though 
I  have  no  acquaintance  with  him,  and  he  greets  me  again  so  invitingly, 
that  I  would  fain  avail  myself  of  his  goodness  on  the  spot,  and  am 
only  prevented  by  the  sight  of  the  many  gaily  dressed  people  passing 
by.  His  lady  wife  is  not  so  bad  looking — she  has,  it  is  true,  only 
one  eye,  but  that  is  all  the  greener  on  that  account,  her  nose  is  like 
the  tower  which  looketh  forth  towards  Damascus,  her  bosom  is  broad 
as  the  billowy  sea,  and  all  sorts  of  ribbons  flutter  above  it  like  the 
flags  of  the  ships  which  have  long  since  sailed  over  this  ocean  bosom — 
it  makes  one  sea-sick  just  to  glance  at  it — her  neck  is  quite  fair  and 
as  plumply  rounded  as — the  simile  will  be  found  a  little  further 
along — and  on  the  violet  blue  curtain  which  covers  this  compa- 
rison, thousands  on  thousands  of  silk  worms  have  spun  away  their 
lives.  You  see,  Madame,  what  a  horse  I  must  have  in  my  mind ! 
When  I  meet  this  lady,  my  heart  rises  within  me,  I  feel  at  once  as 
if  I  were  ready  to  ride — I  flourish  my  switch,  I  snap  my  fingers,  I 
cluck  my  tongue — I  make  all  sorts  of  equestrian  movements  with 
my  legs — hap! — hey — gee  up — g'lang! — and  the  dear  lady  smiles 
on  me  so  intelligently,  so  full  of  soul,  so  appreciatingly  as  if  she 
read  my  every  thought, — she  neighs  with  her  nostrils,  she  coquettes 
with  the  crupper — she  curvets,  and  then  suddenly  goes  off  in  a  dog- 
trot. And  I  stand  there,  with  folded  arms,  looking  pleasedly  on  her 
as  she  goes,  and  reflect  whether  I  shall  ride  my  steed  with  a  curbed- 
bit  or  a  snaffle- bridle,  and  whether  I  shall  give  her  an  English  or  a 
Polish  saddle — et  cetera.  People  who  see  me  standing  thus  cannot 
conceive  what  there  can  be  in  the  lady  which  so  attracts  me.  Med- 
dling, scandal-bearing  tongues  have  already  tried  to  make  her  husband 
uneasy,  and  insinuated  that  I  looked  on  his  wife  with  the  eye  of  a 
roue.  But  my  honest,  soft  leather  chaise  percSe  has  answered  that 
he  regards  me  as  an  innocent,  even  somewhat  bashful  youth,  who 
looks  carefully,  like  one  desirous  of  nearer  acquaintance,  but  who  is 

18 


—    206  — 


restrained  by  blushing  baslifulness.  My  noble  steed  thinks  on  the 
contrary,  that  I  have  a  free,  independent,  chivalric  air,  and  that  my 
salutatory  politeness  only  expresses  a  wish  to  be  invited  for  once  to 
dinner  with  her. 

You  see,  Madame,  that  I  can  thus#use  everybody,  and  that  the 
city  directory  is  really  the  inventory  of  my  property.  And  I  can 
consequently  never  become  bankrupt,  for  my  creditors  themselves 
are  my  profits,  or  will  be  changed  to  such.    Moreover,  as  I  before 

said,  I  live  economically, — d  d  economically  !    For  instance, 

while  I  write  this,  I  sit  in  a  dark,  noisy  room,  on  the  "  Dusty  street 
but  I  cheerfully  endure  it,  for  I  could,  if  I  only  chose,  sit  in  the  most 
beautiful  garden,  as  well  as  my  friends  and  my  loves  ;  for  I  only  need 
at  once  realize  my  schnapps-clients.  These,  Madame,  consist  of  decayed 
hair-dressers,  broken-down  panders,  bankrupt  keepers  of  eating-houses, 
who  themselves  can  get  nothing  to  eat — finished  blackguards,  who 
know  where  to  seek  me,  and  who,  for  the  wherewithal  to  buy  a  drink 
(money  down),  furnish  me  with  all  the  chronique  scandaleuse  of  their 
quarter  of  the  town.  Madame,  you  wonder  that  I  do  not,  once  for 
all,  kick  such  a  pack  out  of  doors  ? — why,  Madame,  what  can  you  be 
thinking  of? — these  people  are  my  flowers.  Some  day  I  will  write 
them  all  down  in  a  beautiful  book,  with  the  proceeds  from  which  I 
will  buy  me  a  garden,  and  their  red,  yellow,  blue  and  variegated 
countenances  now  appear  to  me  like  the  flowers  of  that  fair  garden. 
What  do  I  care,  if  strange  noses  assert  that  these  flowers  smell  of 
auniseed  brandy,  tobacco,  cheese  and  blasphemy  !  My  own  nose,  the 
chimney  of  my  head,  wherein  the  chimney-sweep  of  my  imagination 
climbs  up  and  down,  asserts  the  contrary,  and  smells  in  the  fellows 
nothing  but  the  perfume  of  roses,  violets,  pinks  and  tuberoses — oh  ! 
how  gloriously  will  I  some  morning  sit  in  my  garden,  listening  to  the 
song  of  the  birds,  and  warm  my  limbs  in  the  blessed  sunshine,  and 
inhale  the  fresh  breath  of  the  leaves,  and,  as  I  glance  at  the  flowers, 
think  of  my  old  blackguards ! 

At  present  I  sit  near  the  dark  "  Dusty  street,"  in  my  darker  room, 
and  please  myself  by  hanging  up  in  it  the  greatest  "obscurity"  of  the 
country — 11  Mais  est  ce  que  vous  verrez  plus  clair  alors?"  Appa- 
rently, Madame,  such  is  the  case — but  do  not  misunderstand  me — 
I  do  not  mean  that  I  hang  up  the  man  himself,  but  the  crystal  lamp 
which  I  intend  to  buy  with  the  money  I  mean  to  write  out  of  him. 
Meanwhile,  I  believe  that  it  would  be  clearer  through  all  creation, 
if  we  could  hang  up  the  "  obscurities,"  not  in  imagination,  but  iD 
reality.    But  if  they  cannot  be  hung  they  must  be  branded — I  again 


—    207  — 


speak  figuratively,  referring  to  branding  en  effigie.  It  is  true  that 
Herr  Yon  White — lie  is  white  and  innocent  as  a  lily — tried  to  white- 
wash over  my  assertion,  in  Berlin,  that  he  had  really  been  branded. 
On  account  of  this,  the  fool  had  himself  inspected  by  the  authorities, 
and  obtained  from  them  a  certificate  that  his  back  bore  no  marks, 
and  he  was  pleased  to  regard  this  negative  certificate  of  arms  as 
a  diploma,  which  would  open  to  him  the  doors  of  the  best  society, 
and  was  astonished  when  they  kicked  him  out — and  now  he  screams 
death  and  murder  at  me,  poor  devil !  and  swears  to  shoot  me 
wherever  he  finds  me.  And  what  do  you  suppose,  Madame,  that  I 
intend  doing  ?  Madame,  from  this  fool — that  is,  from  the  money 
which  I  intend  to  write  out  of  him — I  will  buy  me  a  good  barrel  of 
Rudesheimer  Rhine  wine.  I  mention  this,  that  you  may  not  think  it 
is  a  malicious  joy  which  lights  up  my  face  whenever  I  meet  the  Herr 
Von  White  in  the  street.  In  fact,  I  only  see  in  him  my  blessed 
Rudesheimer, — the  instant  I  set  eyes  on  him  I  become  cheerful  and 
genial  hearted,  and  begin  to  trill,  in  spite  of  myself,  "  Upon  the 
Rhine,  'tis  there  our  grapes  are  growing,"  "  This  picture  is  enchant- 
ing fair,"  "  Oh,  White  Lady."  Then  my  Rudesheimer  looks  horribly 
sour — enough  to  make  one  believe  that  he  was  compounded  of  noth- 
ing but  poison  and  gall — but  I  assure  you,  Madame,  it  is  a  genuine 
vintage,  and  though  the  inspector's  mark  be  not  branded  on  it,  the 
connoisseur  still  knows  how  to  appreciate  it.  I  will  merrily  tap  this 
cask,  and  should  it  chance  to  ferment  and  threaten  to  fly  out  danger- 
ously, I  will  have  it  bound  down  with  a  few  iron  hoops,  by  the  pro- 
per authorities. 

You  see,  therefore,  Madame,  that  you  need  not  trouble  yourself 
on  my  account.  I  can  look  at  ease  on  all  in  this  world.  The  Lord 
has  blessed  me  in  earthly  goods,  and  if  he  has  not  exactly  stored  the 
wine  away  for  me,  in  my  cellar,  he  at  least  allows  me  to  work  in  his 
vineyard.  I  only  need  gather  my  grapes,  press  them,  barrel  them, 
and  there  I  have  my  clear  heavenly  gift,  and  if  fools  do  not  fly 
exactly  roasted  into  my  mouth,  but  run  at  me  rather  raw,  and 
not  even  "  half  baked,"  still  I  know  how  to  roast  them,  baste  them, 
and  "give  them  pepper,"  until  they  are  tender  and  savoury.  Oh, 
Madame,  but  you  will  enjoy  it  when  I  some  day  give  a  grand  fete ! 
Madame,  you  shall  then  praise  my  kitchen.  You  shall  confess  that 
I  can  entertain  my  satraps  as  pompously  as  once  did  the  great 
Ahasuerus,  when  he  was  king  from  India  even  unto  the  Blacks,  over 
one  hundred  and  seven  and  twenty  provinces.  I  will  slaughter  whole 
hecatombs  of  fools.    That  great  Piiilosoiixaps,  who  came,  as  Jupi- 


—    203  — 


ter,  in  the  form  of  an  ox,*  lusted  for  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Europa,  will 
supply  the  roast  beef ;  a  tragical  tragedian,  who,  on  the  stage,  when 
it  represented  a  tragical  Persian  kingdom,  exhibited  to  us  a  tragical 
Alexander,  will  supply  my  table  with  a  splendid  pig's  head,  grinning, 
as  usual,  sourly  sweet,  with  a  slice  of  lemon  in  his  mouth,  and 
shrewdly  decked,  by  the  artistic  cook,  with  laurel  leaves ;  while  that 
singer  of  coral  lips,  swan  necks,  bounding,  snowy  little  hills,  little 
things,  little  legs,  little  kisses,  and  little  assessors,  namely,  H.  Clau- 
ren,  or,  as  the  pious  Berharder  girls  cry  after  him  on  the  Fredrick's 
street,  "  Father  Clauren  !  our  Clauren  !"  will  supply  me  with  all 
the  dishes  which  he  knows  how  to  describe  so  juicily  in  his  annual 
little  pocket  bawdy  houses,  with  all  the  imagination  of  a  lusciously 
longing  kitchen  maid.  And  he  shall  give  us,  over  and  above,  an 
altogether  extra  little  dish,  with  a  little  plate  of  celery,  "  for  which 
the  little  heart  bounds  with  love !"  A  shrewd  dried-up  maid  of 
honor,  whose  head  is  the  only  part  of  her  which  is  now  of  any  use, 
will  give  us  a  similar  dish,  namely,  asparagus,  and  there  will  be  no 
want  of  Göttingen  sausages,  Hamburg  smoked  beef,  Pomeranian 
geese-breasts,  ox-tongues,  calves'  brains,  "  cheek,"  "  gudgeons," 
"  cakes,"  M  small  potatoes."  and  therewith  all  sorts  of  jellies,  Berlin 
pan-cakes,  Vienna  tarts,  comfits — 

Madame,  I  have  already,  in  imagination,  over-eaten  myself !  The 
Devil  take  such  gormandizing  !  I  cannot  bear  much — the  pig's 
head  acts  on  me  as  on  the  rest  of  the  German  public — I  must  eat  a 
Willibald  Alexis  salad  on  it — that  purges  and  purifies.  0,  the 
wretched  pig's  head  !  with  the  still  wretcheder  sauce,  which  has 
neither  a  Grecian  nor  a  Persian  flavor,  but  which  tastes  like  tea  and 
soft  soap! — Bring  me  my  plump  millionaire! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Madame,  I  observe  a  faint  cloud  of  discontent  on  your  lovely  brow, 
and  you  seem  to  ask  if  it  is  not  wrong  that  I  should  thus  dress  fools, 
stick  them  on  the  spit,  carbonado  them,  lard  them,  and  even  butcher 
many  which  must  lie  untouched  save  by  the  fowls  of  the  air,  while 
widows  and  orphans  cry  for  want  ? 


*  An  "ox,''  when  used  as  an  abusive  epithet,  signifies-,  in  German,  much  the  same  as 
au  asa. 


—   209  — 

Madame,  cest  la  guerre!  But  now  I  will  solve  you  the  whole  riddle. 
I  myself  am  by  no  means  one  of  the  wise  ones,  but  I  have  joined  their 
party,  and  now  for  five  thousand  five  hundred  and  eighty-eight  years  we 
have  been  carrying  on  war  with  the  fools.  The  fools  believe  that  they 
have  been  wronged  by  us,  inasmuch  as  they  believe  that  there  was  once 
in  the  world  but  a  certain  determined  quantity  of  reason,  which  was 
thievishly  appropriated — the  Lord  only  knows  how — by  the  wise  men, 
and  it  is  a  sin  which  cries  to  heaven,  to  see  how  much  sense  one  man 
often  gets,  while  all  his  neighbors,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  country  for 
miles  around,  is  fairly  befogged  with  stupidity.  This  is  the  veritable 
secret  cause  of  war,  and  it  is  most  truly  a  war  of  defence.  The  intelli- 
gent show  themselves,  as  usual,  the  calmest,  most  moderate  and  most 
intelligent — they  sit  firmly  fortified  behind  their  ancient  Aristotelian 
works,  have  much  ordnance,  and  also  amunition,  in  store — for  they 
themselves  were  the  inventors  of  powder  —  and  now  and  then 
they  shoot  a  well-aimed  bomb  among  their  foes.  But,  unfortunately, 
the  latter  are  by  far  the  most  numerous,  and  their  outcries  are  terri- 
ble, and  day  by  day  they  do  the  most  cruel  dee  ds  of  torture — for,  in 
fact,  every  folly  is  a  torture  to  the  wise.  Their  military  stratagems 
are  often  very  cunning  indeed.  Some  of  the  chiefs  of  the  great 
Fool  Army,  take  good  care  not  to  admit  the  secret  origin  of  the 
war.  They  have  heard  that  a  well  known  deceitful  man,  who 
advanced  so  far  in  the  art  of  falsehood,  that  he  ended  by  writing  false 
memoirs — I  mean  Fouche — once  asserted  that  Us  paroles  sont  faites 
pour  nous  cacher  nos  ycnse'es  ;  and  therefore  they  talk  a  great  deal  in 
order  to  conceal  their  want  of  thought,  and  make  long  speeches,  and 
write  big  books — and  if  any  one  is  listening,  they  praise  that  only 
spring  of  true  happiness,  namely,  wisdom  ;  and  if  any  one  is  looking 
on  at  them,  they  work  away  at  mathematics,  logic,  statistics,  mechani- 
cal improvements,  and  so  forth — and  as  a  monkey  is  more  ridiculous 
the  more  he  resembles  man,  so  are  these  fools  more  laughable  the 
more  reasonably  they  behave.  Other  chiefs  of  the  great  army  are 
more  open-hearted,  and  confess  that  their  own  share  of  wisdom  is 
not  remarkably  great,  and  that  perhaps  they  never  had  any,  but  they 
cannot  refrain  from  asserting  that  wisdom  is  a  very  sour,  bitter 
affair,  and,  in  reality,  of  but  little  value.  This  may  perhaps  be  true, 
but,  unfortunately,  they  have  not  wisdom  enough  to  prove  it.  They 
therefore  jump  at  every  means  of  vindication,  discover  new  powers  in 
themselves,  explain  that  these  are  quite  as  effectual  as  rea- 
son, and,  in  some  cases,  much  more  so — for  instance,  the  feeling, 
faith,  inspiration — and  with  this  surrogate  of  wisdom,  this  poll- 

18* 


—    210  — 


parrot  reason,  they  console  themselves.  I,  poor  devil,  am  especially 
hated  by  them,  as  they  assert  that  I  originally  belonged  to  their 
party,  that  I  am  a  run-away,  a  fugitive,  a  bolter — a  deserter,  who  has 
broken  the  holiest  ties  ; — yes,  that  I  am  a  spy.  who  secretly  reveals 
their  plans,  in  order  to  subsequently  give  point  to  the  laughter  of 
the  enemy,  and  that  I  myself  am  so  stupid  as  not  to  see  that  the 
wise  at  the  same  time  laugh  at  me,  and  never  regard  me  as  an  equal. 
And  there  the  fools  speak  sensibly  enough. 

It  is  true  that  my  party  do  not  regard  me  as  one  of  themselves, 
and  often  laugh  at  me  in  their  sleeves.  I  know  that  right  well,  though 
I  pretend  not  to  observe  it.  But  my  heart  bleeds  within  me,  and 
when  I  am  alone,  then  my  tears  flow.  I  know  right  well  that  my 
position  is  a  false  one,  that  all  I  do  is  folly  to  the  wise  and  a  torment 
to  the  fools.  They  hate  me,  and  I  feel  the  truth  of  the  saying, 
"  Stone  is  heavy  and  sand  is  a  burden,  but  the  wrath  of  a  fool  is 
heavier  than  both."  And  they  do  not  hate  me  without  reason. 
It  is  perfectly  true,  I  have  torn  asunder  the  holiest  bands,  when  I 
might  have  lived  and  died  among  the  fools,  in  the  way  of  the  law  and 
of  God.  And  oh!  I  should  have  lived  so  comfortably  had  I 
remained  among  them !  Even  now,  if  I  would  repent,  they  would 
still  receive  me  with  open  arms.  They  would  invite  me  every  day  to 
dinner,  and  in  the  evening  ask  me  to  their  tea  parties  and  clubs,  and 
I  could  play  whist  with  them,  smoke,  talk  politics,  and  if  I  yawned 
from  time  to  time,  they  would  whisper  behind  my  back,  "  "What 
beautiful  feelings  I"  "  a  soul  inspired  with  such  faith !"  —  permit 
me,  Madame,  that  I  hereby  offer  up  a  tear  of  emotion — ah !  and 
I  could  drink  punch  with  them,  too,  until  the  proper  inspiration 
came,  and  then  they  would  bring  me  in  a  hackney  coach  to  my  house, 
anxiously  concerned  lest  I  might  catch  cold,  and  one  would  quickly 
bring  me  my  slippers,  another  my  silk  dressing  gown,  a  third  my 
white  night-cap,  and  finally  they  would  make  me  a  "  professor  extra- 
ordinary," a  president  of  a  society  for  converting  the  heathen,  or 
head  calculator  or  director  of  Roman  excavations ; — and  then  I 
would  be  just  the  man  for  all  this,  inasmuch  as  I  can  very  accurately 
distinguish  the  Latin  declensions  from  the  conjugations,  and  am  not 
so  apt  as  other  people  to  mistake  a  postillion's  boot  for  an  Etruscan 
vase.  My  peculiar  nature,  my  faith,  my  inspiration, could,  besides  this, 
effect  much  good  during  the  prayer-meeting — viz.,  for  myself — and 
then  my  remarkable  poetic  genius  would  stand  me  in  good  stead  on 
the  birth-days  and  at  the  weddings  of  the  great,  nor  would  it  be  a 
bad  thought  if  I,  in  a  great  national  epic,  should  sing  of  all  those 


—    211  — 

heroes,  of  whom  we  know,  with  certainty,  that  from  their  mouldering 
bodies  crept  worms,  who  now  give  themselves  out  for  their 
descendants. 

Many  men  who  are  not  born  fools,  and  who  were  once  gifted  with 
reason,  have  on  this  account  gone  over  to  the  fools  and  lead  among 
them  a  real  pays  cht  Cocdyne*  life,  and  those  follies  which  at  first  so 
pained  them  have  now  become  second  nature — yes,  they  are  in  fact 
no  longer  to  be  regarded  as  hypocrites,  but  as  true  converts.  One 
of  these,  in  whose  head  utter  and  outer  darkness  does  not  as  yet 
entirely  prevail,  really  loves  me,  and  lately,  when  I  was  alone  with 
him,  he  closed  the  door,  and  said,  with  an  earnest  voice,  "  Oh,  Fool!" 
you  who  play  the  wise  man  and  have  not  after  all  as  much  sense  as 
a  recruit  in  his  mother's  belly  !  know  you  not  that  the  great  in 
the  land  only  elevate  those  who  abase  themselves,  and  esteem  their 
own  blood  less  worthy  than  that  of  the  great  ?  And  now  you  would 
ruin  all  among  the  pious  !  Is  it  then  such  a  difficult  thing  to  roll  up 
vour  eyes  in  a  holy  rapture,  to  hide  your  arms  crossed  in  faith  in 
your  coat  sleeve,  to  let  your  head  hang  down  like  a  lanm  of  God's, 
and  to  murmur  Bible  sayings  got  by  heart !  Believe  me,  no  Gracious 
Highness  will  reward  you  for  your  godlessness,  the  men  of  Love  will 
hate,  abuse,  and  persecute  you,  and  you  will  never  make  your  way 
either  in  this  world,  or  in  the  next !" 

Ah,  me !  it  is  all  true  enough !  But  I  have  unfortunately  con- 
tracted this  unlucky  passion  for  Keason  !  I  love  her  though  she  loves 
me  not  again.  I  give  her  all,  she  gives  me  naught  again.  I  cannot 
tear  myself  from  her.  And  as  oLce  the  Jewish  king  Solomon  in  his 
canticles  sang  the  Christian  Church  and  that  too  under  the  form  of 
a  black,  love-insatiate  maiden,  so  that  his  Jews  might  not  suspect 
what  he  was  driving  at,  so  have  I  in  countless  lays,  sung  just  the 
contrary,  that  is  to  say,  reason,  and  that  under  the  form  of  a  white 
cold  beauty,  who  attracts  and  repels  me,  who  now  smiles  at  me,  then 
scorns  me,  and  finally  turns  her  back  on  me.  This  secret  of  my 
unfortunate  love,  gives  you,  Madame,  some  insight  into  my  folly.  You 


*  Schlaraffenland — or  in  French,  'pays  du  Cocagne. ;"  in  English,  "the  Jack  Pudding 
Paradise ;''  where  the  pigs  run  about  ready  roasted,  with  puddings  in  their  bellies,  crying, 
"Come  eat  me!"  as  an  old  authority  hath  it.  It  was  in  this  land  that  "little  King 
Boggen  once  built  a  fine  hall.  Pie  crust  and  pastry  crust — tbat  was  €he  wall."  (Vide 
Mother  Goose's  Melodies.)  In  maritime  circles  Schlaraffenland  is  known  as  "  Fiddlers 
Green."  Rabelais  gives  us  an  idea  of  it  in  his  Theleme,  and  Mahomet  in  his  Koran, 
while  a  fine  poem  on  the  same  subject  occurs  in  mo^t  collections  of  Trouveur  lais. — Note 
by  Translator. 


—   212  — 


doubtless,  perceive  that  it  is  of  an  extraordinary  description,  and 
that  it  rises,  magnificently  rises  over  the  ordinary  follies  of  mankind. 
Bead  my  RadclifFe,  my  Almanzor,  my  lyrical  Intermezzo — reason ! 
reason !  nothing  but  reason  ! — and  you  will  be  terrified  at  the  immen- 
sity of  my  folly.  In  the  words  of  Agur,  I  can  say,  "  I  am  the  most 
foolish  of  all  mankind,  and  the  wisdom  of  man  is  not  in  me." 

High  in  the  air  rises  the  forest  of  oaks,  high  over  the  oaks  soar 
the  eagle,  high  over  the  eagle  sweep  the  clouds,  high  over  the  clouds 
gleam  the  stars, — Madame,  is  not  that  too  high  ?  eh  bien — high  over 
the  stars  sweep  the  angels,  high  over  the  angels  rises — no,  Madame, 
my  folly  can  bring  it  no  higher  than  this.  It  soars  high  enough !  It 
grows  giddy  before  its  own  sublimity.  It  makes  of  me  a  giant  in  seven 
mile  boots.  At  noon  I  feel  as  though  I  could  devour  all  the  elephants 
of  Hindostan,  and  then  pick  my  teeth  with  the  spire  of  Strasburg 
cathedral ;  in  the  evening  I  become  so  sentimental  that  I  would  fain 
drink  up  the  Milky  Way  without  reflecting  how  indigestible  I  should 
find  the  little  fixed  stars,  and  by  night  there  is  the  Devil  himself 
broke  loose  in  my  head  and  no  mistake.  For  then  there  assemble  in 
my  brain  the  Assyrians,  Egyptians,  Medes,  Persians,  Hebrews, 
Philistines,  Frankforters,  Babylonians,  Carthagenians,  Berliners, 
Romans,  Spartans,  Flat-heads,  and  Chuckleheads — Madame,  it  would 
be  too  wearisome  should  I  continue  to  enumerate  all  these  people. 
Do  you  only  read  Herodotus,  Livy,  the  Magazine  of  Haude  and 
Spenee,  Cürtius,  Cornelius  Nepos,  the  "  Companion," — Meanwhile, 
I  will  eat  my  breakfast,  this  morning  I  do  not  get  along  very  well 
with  my  writing,  the  blessed  Lord  leaves  me  in  the  lurch — Madame, 
I  even  fear — yes,  yes,  you  remarked  it  before  I  did  myself — yes — 
I  see.  This  morning  I  have  not  had  any  of  the  real  regular  sort  of 
divine  aid.  Madame,  I  will  begin  a  new  chapter,  and  tell  you  how 
after  the  death  of  Le  Graxd  I  came  to  Godesberg. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

When  I^arrived  at  Godesburg  I  sate  myself  once  more  at  the  feet 
of  my  fair  friend — and  near  me  lay  her  brown  hound — and  we  both 
looked  up  into  her  lovely  eyes. 

Ah,  Lord  !  in  those  eyes  lay  all  the  splendor  of  earth,  and  an  entire 
heaven  besides.  I  could  have  died  with  rapture  as  I  gazed  into  them, 


—    213  — 

« 

and  had  I  died  at  that  instant  my  soul  would  have  flown  directly  into 
tliose  eyes.  Oh  !  they  are  indescribable.  I  must  borrow  some  poet, 
who  went  mad  for  love,  from  a  lunatic  asylum,  that  he  may  from  the 
uttermost  abyss  of  his  madness  fish  up  some  simile  wherewith  to  com- 
pare those  eyes. — (Between  you  and  I,  reader,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
must  be  mad  enough  myself,  to  want  any  help  in  such  a  business.) 
"  God  damn  it!"  said  an  English  gentleman,  "when  she  looks  at  a 
man  quietly  from  head  to  foot,  she  melts  his  coat  buttons  and  heart, 
all  into  a  lump  !"  "  F — e  /"  said  a  Frenchman.  "  Her  eyes  are  of 
the  largest  calibre,  and  when  she  shoots  one  of  her  forty-two  pound 
glances — crack  ! — there  you  are  in  love !"  There  was  a  red-headed 
lawyer  from  Mayence,  who  said  that  her  eyes  resembled  two  cups  of 
coffee — without  cream.  He  wished  to  say  something  sweet,  and 
thought  that  he  had  done  it — because  he  always  sugared  his  coffee  to 
death.  Wretched,  wretched  comparisons  !  I  and  the  brown  hound 
lay  quietly  at  the  feet  of  the  fair  lady,  and  gazed  and  listened.  She 
sat  near  an  old  iron-gray  soldier,  a  knightly  looking  man  with  cross- 
barred  scars  on  his  terrible  brow.  They  both  spoke  of  the  Seven 
Mountains  painted  by  the  evening  red,  and  the  blue  Rhine  which 
flooded  its  way  along  in  sublime  tranquillity.  What  did  we  care  for  the 
Seven  Mountains  and  the  blue  Rhine,  and  the  snowy  sail-boats  which 
swam  thereon,  and  the  music  which  rang  from  one  particular  boat,  or 
the  jackass  of  a  student  who,  seated  in  it,  sang  so  meltingly  and  beau- 
tifully. I  and  the  brown  hound  both  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  our  fair 
friend,  and  looked  at  the  face  which  came  forth  rosy  pale  from  amid 
its  black  braids  and  locks,  like  the  moon  from  dark  clouds.  The 
features  were  of  the  noblest  Grecian  type,  the  lips  boldly  arched,  over 
which  played  melancholy,  rapture,  and  child-like  fantasy :  and  when 
she  spoke,  the  words  were  breathed  forth  almost  sighingly,  and  then 
again  shot  out  impatiently  and  rapidly — and  when  she  spoke,  and  her 
speech  fell  softly  as  snow,  yet  like  a  warm  genial  flower  shower  from 
her  lovely  mouth — oh,  then  the  crimson  of  evening  fell  gently  over 
my  soul,  and  through  it  flitted  with  ringing  melody  the  memories  of 
childhood,  but,  above  all,  like  a  fairy  bell  there  pealed  within,  the 
voice  of  the  little  Veronica — and  I  grasped  the  fair  hand  of  my  lady 
friend,  and  pressed  it  to  my  eyes,  till  the  ringing  in  my  soul  had  passed 
away — and  then  I  leaped  up  and  laughed,  and  the  hound  bayed,  and 
the  brow  of  the  old  general  wrinkled  up  sternly,  and  I  sat  down  again 
and  clasped  and  kissed  the  beautiful  hand,  and  told  and  spoke  of  little 
Veronica. 


—   214  — 


.    CHAPTER  XYII. 

Madame — you  wish  me  to  describe  the  appearance  of  the  little 
Veronica?  But  I  will  not.  You,  Madame,  cannot  be  compelled  to 
read  more  than  you  please,  and  I  on  the  other  hand  have  the  right  to 
write  exactly  what  I  choose.  But  I  will  now  tell  what  the  lovely  hand 
was  like,  which  I  kissed  in  the  previous  chapter. 

First  of  all  I  must  confess — that  I  was  not  worthy  to  kiss  that 
hand.  It  was  a  lovely  hand — so  tender,  so  transparent,  so  perfumed, 
brilliant,  sweet,  soft,  beautiful — by  my  faith,  I  must  send  to  the 
apothecary  for  twelve  shillings'  worth  of  adjectives. 

On  the  middle  finger  there  sat  a  ring  with  a  pearl — I  never  saw  a 
pearl  which  played  a  more  sorrowful  part — on  the  marriage  finger  she 

wore  a  ring  with  a  blue  antique  I  have  studied  archaeology  in  it 

for  hours — on  the  forefinger  she  wore  a  diamond — it  was  a  talisman, 
as  long  as  I  looked  at  it  I  was  happy,  for  wherever  it  was,  there  too 
was  the  finger  with  its  four  friends — and  she  often  struck  me  on  the 
mouth  with  all  five  of  them.  Since  I  was  thus  manipulated  I  believe 
fast  and  firm  in  animal  magnetism.  But  she  did  not  strike  hard,  and 
when  she  struck  I  always  deserved  it  by  some  godless  speech,  and  as 
soon  as  she  had  struck  me,  she  at  once  repented  it,  and  took  a  cake, 
broke  it  in  two,  and  gave  me  one  half  and  the  brown  hound  the  other 
half,  and  smiled,  and  said,  "  Neither  of  you  have  any  religion,  and  you 
will  never  be  happy,  and  so  you  must  be  fed  with  cakes  in  this  world, 
for  there  will  be  no  table  spread  for  you  in  Heaven."  And  she  was 
more  than  half  right,  for  in  those  days  I  was  very  irreligious,  and  read 
Thomas  Paine,  the  Systeme  de  la  Nature,  the  "  Westphalian  Adver- 
tiser/' and  Schleiermacher,  letting  my  beard  and  my  reason  grow 
together,  and  had  thoughts  of  enrolling  myself  among  the  Rationalists. 
But  when  that  soft  hand  swept  over  my  brow,  my  "  reason"  stood 
still,  and  sweet  dreams  came  into  my  soul,  and  I  again  dreamed  that 
1  hoard  gentle  songs  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  I  thought  on  the  little 
Vkronica. 

Madame,  you  can  hardly  imagine  how  beautiful  little  Veronica 
looked  as  she  lay  in  her  little  coffin.  The  burning  candles  as  they 
stood  around  cast  a  glow  on  the  white-smiling  little  face,  and  on  the 
red  silk  roses  and  rustling  gold  spangles  with  which  the  head  and  the 
little  shroud  were  decked — good  old  Ursct,a  had  led  me  at  eveuing 
into  the  silent  chamber,  and  as  I  looked  at  the  little  corpse  laid  amid 


—    215  — 


lights  and  flowers  on  the  table,  I  at  first  believed  that  it  was  a  pretty 
saint's  image  of  wax.  But  I  soon  recognized  the  dear  face,  and 
asked,  smilingly,  why  little  Veronica  laid  so  still  ?  And  Ursula 
said,  "  Because  she  is  dead,  dear  !" 

And  as  she  said,  "  Because  she  is  dead" — But  1  will  go  no  further 
to-day  with  this  story,  it  would  be  too  long,  besides  I  should  first 
speak  of  the  lame  magpie  which  hopped  about  the  castle  court-yard, 
and  was  three  hundred  years  old,  and  then  I  could  become  regularly 
melancholy.  A  fancy  all  at  once  seizes  on  me  to  tell  another  story, 
!  which  is  a  merry  one,  and  just  suits  this  place,  for  it  is  really  the 
history  itself  which  T  propose  to  narrate  in  this  book. 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

Night  and  storm  raged  in  the  bosom  of  the  knight.  The  poniard 
blows  of  slander  had  struck  to  his  heart,  and  as  he  advanced  sternly 
along  over  the  bridge  of  San  Marco,  the  feeling  stole  over  him  as 
though  that  heart  must  burst  and  flow  away  in  blood.  His  limbs 
trembled  with  weariness — the  noble  quarry  had  been  fiercely  hunted 
during  the  live-long  summer  day — the  drops  fell  from  his  brow,  and 
as  he  entered  the  gondola,  he  sighed  heavily.  He  sat  unthinkingly 
in  the  black  cabin  of  the  gondola — unthinkingly  the  soft  waves  shook 
him  and  bore  him  along  the  well-known  way  to  the  Brenta — and  as 
he  stepped  out  before  the  well-known  palace,  he  heard  that  the 
"  Signora  Laura  was  in  the  Garden." 

She  stood  leaning  on  the  statue  of  the  Lacicoon,  near  the  red-rose 
tree,  at  the  end  of  the  terrace,  near  the  weeping  willows,  which  hung 
down  mournfully  over  the  water.  There  she  stood,  smiling,  a  pale 
image  of  love,  amid  the  perfume  of  roses.  At  the  sight  he  suddenly 
IWaked  as  from  some  terrible  dream,  and  was  at  once  changed  to 
mildness  and  longing.  "  Signora  Laura,"  said  he,  "  I  am  wretched 
and  tormented  with  hatred  and  oppression  and  falsehood" — and  here 
he  suddenly  paused  and  stammered  ; — "  but  I  love  you" — and  then  a 
tear  of  joy  darted  into  his  eye,  and  with  palpitating  heart  he  cried: — 
*  be  my  own  love  and  love  me !"         *         *  * 

There  lies  a  veil  of  dark  mystery  over  that  hour,  no  mortal  has  ever 
known  what  Signora  Laura  replied,  and  when  they  ask  her  guardian 
angel  in  Heaven  what  took  place,  he  hides  his  face,  and  sighs,  and  is 
silent. 


—   216  — 


Solitary  and  alone  stood  the  knight  by  the  statue  of  the  Laöcoön 
— his  own  face  was  not  less  convulsed  and  deathly  pale,  unconsciously 
he  tore  away  the  roses  from  the  rose-tree — yes,  he  plucked  even 
the  young  buds.  Since  that  hour  the  rose  tree  never  bore  another 
fioweret — far  in  the  dim  distance  sang  an  insane  nightingale — the 
willows  whispered  in  agony,  mournfully  murmured  the  cool  waves  of 
the  Brenta,  night  rose  on  high  with  her  moon  and  stars — and  one  star, 
the  loveliest  of  all,  fell  adown  from  Heaven ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Vous pleurcz  Madame? 

Oh,  may  the  eyes  which  shed  such  lovely  tears  long  light  up  the 
world  with  their  rays,  and  may  a  warm  and  loving  hand  close  them 
in  the  hour  of  death  ?  A  soft  pillow,  Madame,  is  also  a  very  conve- 
nient thing  when  dying,  and  I  trust  that  you  will  not  be  without  it ; 
and  when  the  fair,  weary  head  sinks  down,  and  the  black  locks  fall  in 
waves  over  the  fast  fading  face  ;  oh,  then,  may  God  repay  those  tears 
which  have  fallen  for  me — for  I  myself  am  the  knight  for  whom  you 
wept — yes,  I  am  the  erring  errant  Knight  of  Love,  the  Knight  of  the 
Fallen  Star ! 

Vous  pleurez,  Madame! 

Oh,  I  understand  those  tears !  Why  need  I  longer  play  a  feigned 
part  ?  You,  Madame,  you  yourself  are  that  fair  lady,  who  wept  so 
softly  in  Godesberg,  when  I  told  the  sad  story  of  my  life.  Like  drops 
of  pearly  dew  over  roses,  the  beautiful  tears  ran  over  the  beautiful 
face — the  hound  was  silent,  the  vesper  chimes  pealed  far  away  iu 
Königs-winter,  the  Ehine  murmured  more  gently,  night  covered  the 
earth  with  her  black  mantle,  and  I  sat  at  your  feet,  Madame,  and 
looked  on  high  into  the  starry  heaven.  At  first  I  took  your  eyes 
also  for  two  stars.  But  how  could  any  one  mistake  such  eyes  for 
stars  ?  Those  cold  lights  of  heaven  cannot  weep  over  the  misery  of 
a  man  who  is  so  wretched,  that  he  cannot  weep. 

And  I  had  a  particular  reason  for  not  mistaking  those  lovely  eyes — 
for  in  them  dwells  the  soul  of  little  Veronica. 

I  have  reckoned  it  up,  Madame,  you  were  born  on  the  very  day  on 
which  Veronica  died.  Johanna,  in  Andernach,  told  methat  I  would 
find  little  Veronica  again  in  Godesburg — and  I  found  her  and  knew 
her  at  once.    That  was  a  sad  chance,  Madame,  that  you  should  die, 


—    217  — 


just  as  the  beautiful  game  was  about  to  begin.  Since  pious  Ursula 
said  to  me,  "  It  is  death,  dear,"  I  have  gone  about  solitary  and  serious 
in  great  picture  galleries,  but  the  pictures  could  not  please  me  as 
they  once  did — they  seemed  to  have  suddenly  faded — there  was  but  a 
single  work  which  retained  its  colour  and  brilliancy  —  you  know, 
Madame,  to  which  piece  I  refer : 
It  is  the  Sultan  and  Sultaness  of  Delhi. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Madame,  how  we  stood  long  hours  before  it, 
and  how  significantly  good  Ursula  smiled,  when  people  remarked 
that  the  faces  in  that  picture  so  much  resembled  our  own  ?  Madame, 
I  find  that  your  likeness  is  admirably  taken  in  that  picture,  and  it 
passes  comprehension  how  the  artist  could  have  so  accurately  repre- 
sented you,  even  to  the  very  garments  which  you  then  wore.  They 
say  that  he  was  mad  and  must  have  dreamed  your  form.  Or  was 
there  perhaps  a  soul  in  the  great  holy  monkey  who  waited  on  you,  in 
those  days,  like  a  page  ? — in  that  case  he  must  certainly  remember 
the  silver-grey  veil,  on  which  he  once  spilled  red  wine,  and  spoiled 
it.  I  was  glad  when  you  lost  him,  he  did  not  dress  you  remarkably 
well,  and  at  any  rate,  the  European  dress  is  much  more  dressy 
than  the  Indian — not  but  that  beautiful  women  are  lovely  in  any 
dress.  Do  you  remember,  Madame,  that  a  gallant  Brahmin — he 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  Ganesa,  the  god  with  an  elephant's  trunk, 
who  rides  on  a  mouse — once  paid  you  the  compliment  that  the  divine 
Maneka,  as  she  came  down  from  Indra's  golden  hill  to  the  royal 
penitent  Wiswamitra,  was  not  certainly  fairer  than  you,  Madame? 

What — forgotten  it  already  ! — Why  it  cannot  be  more  than  three 
thousand  years  since  he  said  that,  and  beautiful  wTomen  are  not  wont 
to  so  quickly  forget  delicate  flattery. 

However,  for  men,  the  Indian  dress  is  far  more  becoming  than  the 
European.  0!  my  rosy-red  lotus-flowered  pantaloons  of  Delhi !  had 
I  worn  ye  when  I  stood  before  the  Signora  Laura  and  begged  for 
love — the  previous  chapter  would  have  rung  to  a  different  tune  !  Alas  ! 
alas !  I  wore  straw-coloured  pantaloons,  which  some  sober  Chinese 
had  woven  in  Nankin  —  my  ruin  was  wroven  with  them  ■ —  the 
threads  of  my  destiny  —  and  I  was  made  miserable. 

Often  there  sits  in  a  quiet  old  German  coffee-house,  a  youth,  silently 
sipping  his  cup  of  Mocha ;  and,  meanwhile,  there  blooms  and  grows 
in  far  distant  China,  his  ruin,  and  there  it  is  spun  and  woven,  and 
despite  the  high  wall  of  China,  it  knowrs  how  to  find  its  way  to  the 
youth  who  deems  it  but  a  pair  of  Nankin  trousers,  and  all  unheeding, 
in  the  gay  buoyancy  of  youth,  he  pulls  them  on,  and  is  lost  for  ever  1 

19 


—   218  — 

And,  Madame,  in  the  little  breast  of  a  mortal,  so  much  misery  can 

hide  itself,  and  keep  itself  so  well  hid  there,  that  the  poor  man  him- 
self for  days  together  does  not  feel  it,  and  is  as  jolly  as  a  piper,  and 

merrily  dances  and  whistles,  and  trolls — lalarallala,  lalarallala.  

la  la  la. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  She  wa9  amiable  and  he  loved  her,  but  he  was  not  worthy  of  love,  and  she  did  not 
love  him."—  Old  Play. 

And  for  this  nonsensical  affair  you  were  about  to  shoot  yourself? 

Madame,  when  a  gentleman  desires  to  shoot  himself,  he  generally  has 
ample  reason  for  it — you  may  be  certain  of  that.  But  whether  he 
himself  knows  what  these  reasons  are  is  another  question.  We  mask 
even  our  miseries,  and  while  we  die  of  bosom  wounds,  we  complain 
)f  the  tooth-ache. 

Madame,  you  have,  I  know,  a  remedy  for  the  tooth-ache? 

Alas  I  I  had  the  tooth-ache  in  my  heart.  That  is  a  wearying  pain, 
and  requires  plugging — with  lead,  and  with  the  tooth  powder  invented 
by  Berthold  Schwartz.* 

Misery  gnawed  at  my  heart  like  a  worm,  and  gnawed — the  poor 
devil  of  a  Chinese  was  not  to  blame,  I  brought  the  misery  with  me 
into  the  world.  It  lay  with  me  in  the  cradle,  and  when  my  mother 
rocked  me,  she  rocked  it  with  me,  and  when  she  sang  me  to  sleep,  it 
slept  with  me,  and  it  awoke  when  I  opened  my  eyes.  When  I  grew 
up,  it  grew  with  me,  until  it  was  altogether  too  great  and  burst 

Now  we  will  speak  of  other  things — of  virgins'  wreaths,  masked 

balls,  of  joy  and  bridal  pleasure  lalarallala,  lalarallala,  lalaral  

la  la  la.f 


*Or  Roger  Bacon. 

f  To  the  Bridesmaid's  Chorus  in  Der  Freyschutz. 


(1826.) 


A  NEW  SPRING. 


Motto:— k  pine  tree  stands  alone 
In  the  north      —  — 

He  is  dreaming  of  a  palm 
Which  afar      —  — 


PROLOGUE. 

Oft  in  galleries  of  Art 

On  a  pictured  knight  we  glance, 
Who  to  battle  will  depart, 

Armed  well  with  shield  and  lance. 

But  young  Cupids  mocking  round  him, 
Bear  his  lance  and  sword  away, 

And  with  rosy  wreaths  they've  bound  him, 
Though  he  strives  as  best  he  may. 

Thus  to  pleasant  fetters  yielding, 

Still  I  turn  the  idle  rhyme, 
While  the  brave  their  arms  are  wielding 

In  the  mighty  strife  of  Time. 


L 

When  'neath  snow-white  branches  sitting, 
Far  thou  nearest  the  wild-wind  chiding, 

Seest  the  silent  clouds  above  thee, 
In  their  wintry  garments  hiding; 

See'st  that  all  seems  cold  and  death-like, 
Wood  and  plain  lie  shorn  before  thee, 

E'en  thy  heart  is  still  and  frozen, 
Winter  round  and  winter  o'er  thee. 
T219) 


—   220  — 


All  at  once  adown  come  falling 

Pure  white  flakes,  and  then  thou  gricvest, 
That  the  weary,  dreary  winter 

Should  return,  as  thou  believest. 

But  those  are  not  snow-flakes  falling, 
Soon  thou  mark'st  with  pleasant  wonder 

That  they  all  are  perfumed  blossoms, 
From  the  tree  thou  sittest  under, 

What  a  thrilling  sweet  amazement ! 

Winter  turns  to  May  and  pleasure; 
ßnow  is  changed  to  lovely  spring  flowers, 

And  thou  find'st  a  new  heart's  treasure. 


2. 


In  the  wood  all  softly  greeneth, 
As  if  maiden-like  'twould  woo  thee; 

And  the  sun  from  Heaven  smileth : 
"  Fair  young  spring,  a  welcome  to  thee  ?" 

Nightingale !  I  hear  thy  singing, 
As  thou  flutest,  sweetly  moving, 

Sighing  long-drawn  notes  of  rapture, 
And  thy  song  is  all  of  loving. 


3. 


The  lovely  eyes  of  the  young  spring  night, 

So  softly  down  are  gazing — 
Oh,  the  Love  which  bore  thee  down  with  might, 

Ere  long  will  thy  soul  be  raising. 

All  on  yon  linden  sits  and  sings, 

The  nightingale  soft  trilling ; 
And  as  her  music  in  me  rings, 

My  soul  with  love  is  thrilling. 


—   221  — 


4. 

I  love  a  fair  flower,  but  I  know  not  its  name ; 

Oh,  sorrow  and  smart  1 
I  look  in  each  flower-cup — my  luck  is  the  same : 

For  I  seek  for  a  heart. 

The  flowers  breathe  their  perfumes — in  evening's  red  shii»e 

The  nightingale  trills. 
I  seek  for  a  heart  which  is  gentle  as  mine, 

Which  as  tenderly  thrills. 

The  nightingale  sings,  and  I  know  what  she  says 

In  her  beautiful  song : 
"We  both  are  love  weary  and  lorn  in  our  lays, 

And  oh !  sorrow  is  long. 


Sweet  May  lies  fresh  before  us, 
To  life  the  young  flowers  leap, 

And  through  the  Heaven's  blue  o'er  us 
The  rosy  cloudlets  sweep. 

The  nightingale  is  singing, 

Adown  from  leafy  screen, 
And  young  white  lambs  are  springing 

In  clover  fresh  and  green. 

I  cannot  be  singing  and  springing, 

I  lie  on  the  grassy  plot, 
I  hear  a  far  distant  ringing, 

I  dream  and  I  know  not  what. 


6. 


Softly  ring  and  through  me  spring, 
The  sweetest  tones  to-day ; 

Gently  ring,  small  song  of  spring, 
Ring  out  and  far  away. 

19* 


—   222  — 


Ring  and  roam  unto  the  home, 
Where  violets  you  see, 

And  when  unto  a  rose  you  come, 
Oh,  greet  that  rose  for  me. 


m 
i  * 

The  butterfly  long  loved  the  beautiful  rose, 

And  flirted  around  all  day ; 
While  round  him  in  turn  with  her  golden  caress, 

Soft  fluttered  the  sun's  warm  ray. 

But  who  was  the  lover  the  rose  smiled  on, 
Dwelt  he  near  the  sweet  lady  or  far  ? 

And  was  it  the  clear-singing  nightingale, 
Or  the  bright  distant  Evening  Star. 

I  know  not  with  whom  the  rose  was  in  love, 

But  I  know  that  I  loved  them  all. 
The  butterfly,  rose,  aüd  the  sun's  bright  ray, 

The  star  and  the  bird's  sweet  call. 


8. 

Yes — all  the  trees  are  musical 
Soft  notes  the  nests  inspire ; 

Who  in  the  green  wood  orchestra 
Leads  off  the  tuneful  choir  ? 

Is  it  yon  grey  old  lapwing, 
Who  nods  so  seriously  ; 

Or  the  pedant  who  cries  "cuckoo" 
In  time,  unweariedly  ? 

Is  it  the  stork  who  sternly 
As  though  he  lead  the  band, 

Claps  with  his  legs,  while  music 
Pipes  sweet  on  either  hand  ? 


—   223  — 


No — in  my  heart  is  seated 

The  one  who  rules  those  tones, 

As  my  heart  throbs  he  times  them, 
And  Love's  the  name  he  owns. 


9. 


'In  the  beginning  sweetly  sang 

The  nightingale  in  love's  firsi  hours, 

And  as  she  sang,  grew  every  where 
Blue  violets,  grass,  and  apple-flowers. 

'She  bit  into  her  breast — out  run 

The  crimson  blood,  and  from  its  shower 
The  first  red-rose  its  life  begun, 
To  which  she  sings  of  love's  deep  power. 

'And  all  the  birds  which  round  us  trill, 
Are  saved  by  that  sweet  blood  they  say ; 

And  if  the  rose  song  rang  no  more, 
Then  all  were  lost  and  passed  away.' 

Thus  to  his  little  nestlings  spoke 
The  sparrow  in  the  old  oak  tree  ; 

Dame  sparrow  oft  his  lecture  broke, 
Throned  in  her  brooding  dignity. 

She  leads  a  kind,  domestic  life, 
And  nurses  well  with  temper  good; 

To  pass  his  time,  the  father  gives 
Eeligious  lessons  to  his  brood. 


10. 

The  warm,  bewildering  spring  night-air 
Wakes  flowrets  on  the  plain  ; 

And  oh,  my  heart,  beware,  beware, 
Or  thou  wilt  love  again. 


—   224  — 


But  say — what  flower  on  hill,  or  dale, 
Will  snare  this  willing  heart  ? 

I'm  cautioned  by  the  nightingale 
Against  the  lily's  art. 


it. 

Trouble  and  torment — I  hear  the  bells  ring  ? 

And  oh !  to  my  sorrow,  I've  lost  my  poor  hea.d  ! 
Two  beautiful  eyes,  and  the  fresh  growing  spring, 

Have  plotted  to  capture  me,  living  or  dead. 

The  beautiful  spring,  and  two  lovely  young  eyes, 
Once  more  this  poor  heart  in  their  meshes  have 

The  rose  and  the  nightingale — yonder  she  flies, 
Are  deeply  involved  in  this  terrible  plot. 


12. 

An  me,  for  tears  I'm  burning, 
Soft,  sorrowing  tears  of  love, 

Yet,  I  fear  this  wild,  sad  yearning, 
But  too  well  my  heart  will  move. 

Ah  !  Love's  delicious  sorrow, 
And  Love's  too  bitter  joy 

With  its  heavenly  pains,  ere  morrow 
Will  my  half-won  peace  destroy. 


13. 

The  spring's  blue  eyes  are  open, 
Up  from  the  grass  they  look ; 

I  mean  the  lovely  violets, 
Which  for  a  wreath  I  took. 

I  plucked  the  flowers  while  thinking, 
And  my  thoughts  in  one  sad  tale, 

To  the  breezes  were  repeated, 
By  the  listening  nightingale, 


—   225  — 


Yes — every  thought  she  warbled, 
As  from  my  soul  it  rose, 

And  now  my  tender  secret, 
The  whole  green  forest  knows. 


14. 

When  thou  didst  pass  beside  me, 
Thy  soft  touch  thrilled  me  through, 

Then  my  heart  leaped  up  and  wildly 
On  thy  lovely  traces  flew. 

Then  thou  didst  gaze  upon  me, 
With  thy  great  eyes  looking  back, 

And  my  heart  was  so  much  frightened, 
It  scarce  could  keep  the  track. 


15. 

The  graceful  water-lily 

Looks  dreamily  up  from  the  lake, 
And  the  moon  looketh  lovingly  on  her, 

For  light  love  keeps  fond  hearts  awake. 

Then  she  bows  her  small  head  to  the  water, 
Ashamed  those  bright  glances  to  meet, 

And  sees  the  poor,  pale  lily  lovers 
All  lying  in  love  at  her  feet. 


16. 

If  thou  perchance  good  eye-sight  hast, 
When  with  my  works  thou'rt  playing, 

Thou'lt  see  a  beauty,  up  and  down 
Among  the  ballads  straying. 

And  if  perchance  good  ears  are  thine 
Oh,  then  thou  may'st  rejoice, 

And  thy  heart  may  be  bewildered, 
With  her  laughing,  sighing  voice. 


—    226  — 


And  well  I  ween  with  glance  and  word 
Full  sore  she'll  puzzle  thee, 

And  thou'lt  go  dreaming  round  in  love 
As  once  it  chanced  to  me. 


17. 

What  drives  thee  around  in  the  warm  spring  night, 
Thou  hast  driven  the  flowers  half  crazy  with  fright ; 

The  violets  no  longer  are  sleeping, 
The  rose  in  her  night-dress  is  blushing  so  red, 
The  lilies — poor  things — sit  so  pale  in  their  bed 

They  are  crying  and  trembling  and  weeping. 

Ah,  dearest  moon !  how  gentle  and  good 

Are  all  these  fair  flowers — in  truth  I've  been  rude ; 

I've  been  making  sad  work  with  my  walking : 
But  how  could  I  know  they  were  lurking  around, 
When  bewildered  with  love  1  strayed  over  the  ground, 

And  to  the  bright  planets  was  talking. 


18. 

When  thy  blue  eyes  turn  on  me, 
And  gaze  so  soft  and  meek, 

Such  dreamy  moods  steal  o'er  me, 
That  I  no  word  can  speak. 

I  dream  of  those  blue  glances, 
When  we  are  far  apart, 

And  a  sea  of  soft  blue  memories 
Comes  pouring  o'er  my  heart. 


19. 

Once  again  my  heart  is  living, 
And  old  sorrows  pass  away ; 

Once  again  the  tenderest  feelings 
Seem  reviving  with  the  May. 


—   227  — 


•  Evening  late  and  morning  early 

Through  the  well-known  paths  I  rove, 
Peeping  under  every  bonnet, 
Looking  for  the  face  I  love. 

Once  again  I'm  by  the  river, 
On  the  bridge  as  in  a  trance ; 

What  if  she  came  sailing  by  me, 
What  if  I  should  meet  her  glance ! 

Now  once  more  'mid  falling  water, 
Gentle  wailings  seem  to  play, 

And  my  heart  in  beauty  catches 
All  the  snow-white  waters  say. 

And  once  more  I  dreaming  wander 

Through  the  green  wood  dark  and  cool, 

While  the  birds  among  the  bushes 
Mock  me — poor  enamoured  fool. 


20. 

The  rose  breathes  perfumes — but  if  she  has  feeling 
Of  what  she  breathes,  or  if  the  nightingale 

Feels  in  herself  what  through  our  souls  is  stealing 
When  her  soft  notes  are  quivering  through  the  vale— 

I  do  not  know — yet  oft  we're  discontented 
With  Truth  itself!  and  nightingale  and  rose, 

Although  their  feelings  be  but  lies  invented, 
Still  have  their  use  as  many  a  story  shows. 


21. 

Because  I  love  thee  'tis  my  duty 
To  shun  thy  face — nay  anger  not ; 

Would  it  agree — that  dream  of  beauty 
With  my  pale  face  so  soon  forgot  ? 


—   228  — 


But  ere  I  leave  thee,  let  me  tell  thee, 
'Twas  all  through  love  this  hue  I  got, 

And  soon  its  pallor  must  repel  thee, 
And  so  I'll  leave — nay,  anger  not ! 


22. 

Amid  the  flowers  I  wander, 
And  blossoms  as  they  blow  ; 

I  wander  as  if  dreaming, 
Uncertain  where  I  go. 

Oh,  hold  me  fast,  thou  dearest — 
I'm  drunk  with  love,  d'ye  see. 

Or  at  your  feet  I'll  fall,  love, 
And  yonder  is  company. 


23. 

As  the  moon's  reflection  trembles 
In  the  wild  and  wavering  deep*, 

"While  the  moon  herself  in  silence, 
O'er  the  arch  of  heaven  sweeps. 

Even  so  I  see  thee — loved  one, 
Calm  and  silent,  and  there  moves 

But  thine  image  in  my  bosom, 
For  my  heart  is  thrilled  and  loves. 


24. 

When  both  our  hearts  together, 
The  holy  alliance  made ; 

They  understood  each  other, 
And  mine  on  thine  was  laid. 

But  oh — the  poor  yonng  rose-bud, 
Which  lay  just  underneath, 

The  minor,  weaker  ally, 

Was  almost  crushed  to  death. 


—    229  — 


25. 

Tell  me  who  first  invented  the  clocks 
Classing  the  hours  and  the  minutes  in  flocks  ? 
That  was  some  shivering,  sorrowful  man — 
Deep  into  midnight  his  reveries  ran, 
While  he  counted  the  nibbling  of  mice  'round  the  hall, 
And  the  notes  of  the  death-watch  which  ticked  in  the  wall. 

Tell  me  who  first  invented  a  kiss  ? 
Oh,  that  was  some  smiling  young  mouth,  full  of  bliss, 
It  kissed  without  thinking  and  still  kissed  away> 
'Twas  all  in  the  beautiful  fresh  month  of  May, 
Up  from  the  earth  the  young  blossoms  sprung, 
The  sunbeams  were  shining  the  merry  birds  sung. 


26. 

How  the  sweet  pinks  breathe  their  perfumes, 
How  the  stars,  a  wondrous  throng, 

Like  gold  bees  o'er  the  blue  heaven, 
Brightly  shining,  pass  along. 

From  the  darkness  of  the  chestnuts 
Gleams  the  farm-house  white  and  fair ; 

I  can  hear  its  glass-doors  rustle, 
And  sweet  voices  whispering  there. 

Gentle  trembling — sweet  emotion, 

Frightened  white  arms  round  me  cling, 

And  the  sweet  young  roses  listen, 
While  the  nightingales  soft  sing. 


27. 

Have  I  not  dreamed  this  self-same  dream 

Ere  now  in  happier  hours  ? 
Those  trees  the  very  same  do  seem, 

Love-glances,  kisses,  flowers. 
20 


—   230  — 


Was  it  not  here  that  calm  and  cold, 
The  moon  looked  down  in  state  ? 

Did  not  these  marble  gods  then  hold 
Their  watch  beside  the  gate  ? 

Alas  !  I  know  how  sadly  change 
These  all-too-lovely  dreams ; 

And  as  with  snowy  mantle  strange 
All,  chill  enveloped  seems. 

So  we  ourselves  grow  calm  and  cold, 

Break  off  and  live  apart ; 
Yes,  we — who  loved  so  well  of  old 

And  kissed  with  heart  to  heart. 


28. 

Kisses  which  we  steal  in  darkness 
And  in  darkness  give  again  ; 

Oh,  such  kisses — how  they  rapture 
A  poor  soul  in  living  pain. 

Half  foreboding,  half  remembering 
Thoughts  through  all  the  spirit  roam ; 

Many  a  dream  of  days  long  vanished, 
Many  a  dream  of  days  to  come. 

But  to  thus  be  ever  thinking, 
Is  unthinking,  when  we  kiss ; 

Bather  weep,  thou  gentle  darling, 
For  our  tears  we  never  miss. 


29. 

There  was  an  old,  old  monarch, 
His  head  was  gray,  and  sad  his  life ; 

Alas,  the  poor  old  monarch, 
He  married  a  fair  young  wife. 


—   231  — 


There  was  a  handsome  stripling, 

Blonde  were  his  locks,  and  light  his  mien ; 
He  bore  the  train — the  silken  train, 

All  of  the  fair  young  queen. 

Know'st  thou  the  old,  old  ballad, 

It  ringeth  like  a  passing  bell ; 
The  queen  and  page  must  die — alas  ! 

They  loved — and  all  too  well. 


30. 

Again  in  my  memory  are  blooming, 

Fair  pictures  long  faded  away ; 
Oh,  where  in  thy  voice  is  the  mystery, 

Which  moves  me  so  deeply  to-day. 

Oh,  say  not,  I  pray,  that  thou  lov'st  me, 
The  fairest  that  Nature  can  frame ; 

The  spring  time — and  with  it  the  spring-love, 
Must  end  in  warm  passion  and  shame. 

Oh,  say  not,  I  pray,  that  thou  lovest  me, 

And  kiss  and  be  silent,  I  pray, 
And  smile  when  I  show  thee  to-morrow 

The  roses  all  faded  away. 


31. 

Linden  blossoms  drunk  with  moonlight, 

Melt  away  in  soft  perfume ; 
And  the  nightingales  with  carols 

Thrill  the  air  amid  the  bloom. 

Oh,  but  is't  not  sweet,  my  loved  one, 
Thus  'neath  linden  boughs  to  sit, 

While  the  golden  flashing  moon-rays, 
Through  the  perfumed  foliage  flit. 


—    232  — 


Every  linden  leaf  above  us, 
Like  a  heart  is  shaped  we  see, 

Therefore,  dearest,  lovers  ever 
Sit  beneath  the  linden  tree. 

Bnt  thou  smilest  as  if  wandering 
In  some  distant,  longing  dream ; 

Tell  me  dearest — with  what  visions 
Doth  thy  busy  fancy  teem  ? 

Gladly  will  I  tell  thee,  dear  one, 
What  I  fancied — I  would  fain 

Feel  the  North  wind  blowing  o'er  us 
And  the  white  snow  fall  again — 

And  that  we  in  furs  warm  folded 
In  a  sleigh  sat  side  by  side, 

Bells  wild  ringing — whips  loud  crackin 
As  o'er  flood  and  fields  we  glide. 


32. 

In  the  moonshine — through  the  forest, 
Once  I  saw  the  fairies  bounding, 

Heard  their  elfin  bell3  soft  ringing, 
Heard  their  little  trumpets  sounding. 

Every  snow-white  steed  was  bearing 
Golden  stag-horns,  and  they  darted 

Head-long  on,  like  frighted  wild  fowl. 
From  their  far  companions  parted. 

But  the  Elf  Queen  smiled  upon  me, 
Sweetly  as  she  passed  before  me ; 

Was't  the  omen  of  a  new  love, 

Or  a  sign  that  death  hangs  o'er  me  ? 


—    233  — 


33. 

I'll  send  thee  violets  to-morrow, 

Fresh  dripping  from  the  dewy  showers ; 

At  eve  again  I'll  bring  thee  roses, 

Which  I  have  plucked  in  twilight  hours. 

And  know'st  thou  what  the  lovely  blossom 
To  thee — sub  rosa — fain  would  say  ? 

They  mean  that  thou  through  night  shouldst  love 
Yet  still  be  true  to  me  by  day. 


34. 

Thy  letter,  fickle  rover, 

Will  cause  no  tearful  song ; 

Thou  sayest  that  all  is  over, 
And  the  letter  is  over  long. 

Twelve  pages  filled  completely, 
A  perfect  book,  my  friend ; 

Oh,  girls  don't  write  so  neatly 
When  they  the  mitten  send. 


35. 

Do  not  fear  lest  I,  unconscious, 
Tell  my  love  to  those  around — 

Though  my  songs  with  many  a  figure 
Of  thy  beauty  still  abound. 

In  a  wondrous  flowering  forest 
Lies  well  hidden,  cowering  low, 

All  the  deeply  burning  mystery, 
All  its  secret,  silent  glow. 

If  suspicious  flames  should  quiver 
Mid  the  roses — let  them  be ; 

No  one  now  believes  in  flames,  love, 
But  they  call  them — poetry. 
20* 


—   234  — 


36. 

As  by  daylight,  so  at  midnight, 

Spring  thoughts  in  my  soul  are  teeming, 

Like  a  verdant  echo,  ever 

In  me  ringing,  in  me  beaming. 

Then  in  dreams  as  in  a  legend, 

Songs  of  birds  are  round  me  trilling, 

Yet  far  sweeter,  wild  iu  passion, 
Violet  breath  the  air  is  filling. 

Every  rose  seems  ruddier  blushing 
'Neath  a  glory,  child-like  golden, 

As  in  glowing  Gothic  pictures, 
Worn  by  angels  fair  and  olden. 

And  I  seem  as  if  transformed 

To  a  nightingale,  soft  singing, 
While  unto  a  rose — my  loved  one — 

Dream-like,  strange,  my  notes  are  ringing. 

Till  the  sun's  bright  glances  wake  me, 

Or  the  merry  jargoning 
Of  those  other  pleasant  warblers 

Who  before  my  window  sing. 


37. 

With  their  small  gold  feet  the  planets 
Step  on  tip-toe  soft  and  light, 

Lest  they  wake  the  earth  below  them 
Sleeping  on  the  breast  of  night. 

Listening  stand  the  silent  forests, 
Every  leaf  a  soft  green  ear, 

While  the  mountain  as  if  dreaming, 
Holds  its  arms  to  cloudlets  near. 

But  what  calls  me  ?  In  my  bosom 
Rings  a  soft  and  flute-like  wail, 

Was't  the  accents  of  the  loved  one, 
Was  it  but  the  nightingale. 


—   235  — 


38. 

Ah,  spring  is  sad,  and  there  is  sadness 
In  all  its  dreams,  the  flower-decked  vale 

Seems  sorrowful.    I  hear  no  gladness 
E'en  from  the  singing  nightingale. 

Smile  not  so  brightly  then  my  dearest, 
Ah,  do  not  smile  so  sweet  to-day, 

Oh  rather  weep — but  if  thou  fearest 
I'm  cold — I'll  kiss  those  tears  away. 


39. 

And  from  the  heart  I  loved  so  dearly, 

By  cruel  fate  I'm  torn  away 
From  that  dear  heart  I  loved  so  dearly, 

Ah  knewest  thou  how  fain  I'd  stay. 

The  coach  rolls  on — the  bridges  thunder. 

Beneath  I  see  the  dark  flood  swell, 
I'm  parted  from  that  loveliest  wonder 

That  heart  of  hearts  I  love  so  well. 


40. 

Our  sweetest  hopes  rise  blooming. 

And  then  again  are  gone, 
They  bloom  and  fade  alternate, 

And  so  it  goes  rolling  on. 

I  know  it,  and  it  troubles 
My  life,  my  love,  my  rest, 

My  heart  is  wise  and  witty, 

And  it  bleeds  within  my  breast. 


—    236  — 


Like  an  old  man  stern  in  feature, 
Heaven  above  me  seems  to  glare, 

His  burning  eyes  surrounded 
With  grisly  cloudy  hair. 

And  when  on  earth  he's  gazing, 
Flower  and  leaf  must  wilt  away, 

Love  and  song  must  wither  with  them 
In  man's  heart — ah,  well-a-day  I 


42. 

With  bitter  soul  my  poor  sad  heart  still  galling, 
I  go  aweary  through  this  world  so  cold, 
Lo,  autumn  endeth  and  the  mists  enfold 

The  long  dead  landscape  as  with  heavy  walling. 

Loud  pipe  the  winds,  as  if  in  frenzy  calling 
To  the  red  leaves  which  here  and  there  are  rolled, 
The  lorn  wood  sighs,  fogs  clothe  the  barren  wold, 

And  worst  of  all,  I  b'lieve  the  rain  is  falling. 


Late  autumnal  cloud-cold  fancies, 
Spread  like  gauze  o'er  dale  and  hill, 

And  no  more  the  green  leaf  dances 
On  the  branches — ghost-like  still. 

And  amid  the  grove  there's  only 

One  sad  tree,  as  yet  in  leaf, 
Damp  with  sorrow's  tears  and  lonely, 

How  his  green  head  throbs  with  grief. 

Ah,  my  heart  is  all  in  keeping 

With  yon  scene — the  one  tree  there — 
Summer-green,  yet  sadly  weeping, 

Is  thine  image  lady-fair. 


—   237  — 


44. 

Gray  and  week-day  looking  Heaven ! 

E'en  the  city  looks  dejected ; 
Grum  as  if  no  plans  had  thriven, 

In  the  Elbe  it  stands  reflected. 

Snubbed  noses — snubbing,  sneezing, 
Are  ye  cut  as  once — and  cutting  ? 

Are  the  saints  still  mild  appearing, 
Or  puffed  up  and  proudly  strutting? 

Lovely  South,  how  bright  and  towering, 
Seem  thy  heavens  and  gods  together, 

Now  I  see  this  vile  offscouring 
Of  base  mortals  and  their  weather. 


ITALY 


(1828.) 


«  Hafiz  and  Ulrich  Hütten,  too, 

Must  don  their  arms,  and  get  to  blowfl, 
Against  the  cowls,  both  brown  and  blue, 
— My  fate  like  other  Christians'  goes." 

Goethe. 

ft 

JOUKNEY  FROM  MUNICH  TO  GENOA. 

"  A  noble  soul  never  comes  into  your  reckoning;  and  it  is  that  which  to-day  has  foun- 
dered your  wisdom.  (He  opens  his  desk,  and  takes  out  two  pistols,  of  which  he  loads  one 
and  lays  the  other  on  the  table.)" 

Robert's  "  Power  of  Circumstances." 


CHAPTER  L 

I  am  the  politest  man  in  the  world.  I  enjoy  myself  in  tho  reflec- 
tion that  I  have  never  been  rude  in  this  life,  where  there  are  so 
many  intolerable  scamps,  who  take  you  by  the  button,  and  drawl  out 
their  grievances,  or  even  declaim  their  poems — yes,  with  true  Chris- 
tian patience  have  I  ever  listened  to  their  misereres,  without  betray- 
ing, by  a  glance,  the  intensity  of  ennui,  and  of  boredom,  into  which 
my  soul  was  plunged.  Like  unto  a  penitential  martyr  of  a  Brahmin, 
who  offers  up  his  body  to  devouring  vermin,  so  that  the  creatures 
(also  created  by  God)  may  satiate  their  appetites,  so  have  I,  for  a 
whole  day,  taken  my  stand,  and  calmly  listened  as  I  grinned  and  bore 
the  chattering  of  the  rabble,  and  my  internal  sighs  were  only 
heard  by  Him  who  rewards  virtue. 

But  the  wisdom  of  daily  life  enjoins  politeness,  and  forbids  a  vexed 
silence  or  a  vexatious  reply,  even  when  some  chuckle-headed  "  Com- 

(238) 


—   239  — 


mercial  Councillor,"  or  barren-brained  cheesemonger,  makes  a  set  at 
ns,  beginning  a  conversation  common  to  all  Europe  with  the  words, 
"  Fine  weather  to-day."  No  one  knows  but  that  we  may  meet  that 
same  Philistine  again,  when  he  may  wreak  bitter  vengeance  on  us  for 
not  politely  replying,  "  It  is  very  fine  weather."  Nay,  it  may  even 
happen,  dear  reader,  that  thou  mayest,  some  fine  day,  come  to  sit  by 
the  Philistine  aforesaid,  in  the  inn  at  Cassel,  and  at  the  table  d'hote — 
even  by  his  left  side,  when  he  is  exactly  the  very  man  who  has  the 
dish  with  a  jolly  brown  carp  in  it,  which  he  is  merrily  dividing  among 
the  many  ; — if  he  now  chance  to  have  some  ancient  grudge  against 
thee,  he  pushes  away  the  dish  to  the  right,  so  that  thou  gettest  not 
the  smallest  bit  of  tail — and  therewith  canst  not  carp  at  all.  For, 
alas !  thou  art  just  the  thirteenth  at  table,  which  is  always  an 
unlucky  thing  when  thou  sittest  at  the  left  hand  of  the  carver,  and 
the  dish  goes  around  to  the  right.  And  to  get  no  carp  is  a  great 
evil ;  perhaps,  next  to  the  loss  of  the  national  cockade,  the  greatest 
of  all.  The  Philistine,  who  has  prepared  this  evil,  now  mocks  thee 
with  a  heavy  grin,  offering  thee  the  laurel  leaves  which  lie  in  the 
brown  sauce — alas !  what  avail  laurels,  if  you  have  no  carp  with 
them ! — and  the  Philistine  twinkles  his  eyes,  and  snickers,  and  whis- 
pers, "  Fine  weather  to-day  !" 

Ah !  dear  soul,  it  may  even  happen  to  thee  that  thou  wilt,  at  last, 
come  to  lie  in  some  churchyard  next  to  that  same  Philistine,  and 
when,  on  the  Day  of  Judgment,  thou  nearest  the  trumpet  sound, 
and  sayest  to  thy  neighbor,  "  Good  friend,  be  so  kind  as  to  reach  me 
your  hand,  if  you  please,  and  help  me  to  stand  up — my  left  leg  is 
asleep  with  this  damned  long  lying  still !" — then  thou  wilt  suddenly 
remember  the  well  known  Philistine  laugh,  and  wilt  hear  tho  mock- 
ing tones  of  "  Fine  weather  to-day  I" 


CHAPTER  IL 
"  Foine  wey-ther  to-day — " 

Oh,  reader,  if  you  could  only  have  heard  the  tone — the  incompara- 
ble trouble-base — in  which  these  words  were  uttered,  and  could  have 
seen  the  speaker  himself — the  arch  -  prosa^r.  widow's-saving-bank 
countenance,  the  stupid -cute  eyelets,  the  cocked-up,  cunning,  investi- 
gating nose — you  would  have  at  once  said,  "  This  flower  grew  on  no 
common  sand,  and  these  tones  are  in  the  dialect  of  Charlottenburg, 


—   240  — 


where  the  tongue  of  Berlin  is  spoken  even  better  than  in  Berlin 
itself. 

I  am  the  politest  man  in  the  world.  I  love  to  eat  brown  carps, 
and  I  believe  in  the  resurrection.  Therefore  I  replied,  "  In  fact,  tbe 
weather  is  very  fine." 

When  the  Son  of  the  Spree  heard  that,  he  grappled  boldly  on  me, 
and  I  could  not  escape  from  his  endless  questions,  to  which  he  him- 
self answered;  nor,  above  all,  from  his  comparisons  between  Berlin 
and  Munich,  which  latter  city  he  would  not  admit  had  a  single  good 
hair  growing  on  it. 

I,  however,  took  the  modern  Athens  under  my  protection,  bem^ 
always  accustomed  to  praise  the  place  where  I  am.  Friend  reader, 
if  I  did  this  at  the  expense  of  Berlin,  you  will  forgive  me,  when  1 
quietly  confess  that  it  was  done  out  of  pure  policy,  for  I  am  fully 
aware  that  if  I  should  ever  begin  to  praise  my  good  Berliners,  my 
renown  would  be  forever  at  an  end  among  them.  For  they  would 
begin  at  once  to  shrug  their  shoulders,  and  whisper  to  one  another, 
"  The  man  must  be  uncommonly  green — he  even  praises  us  /"  No 
town  in  the  world  has  so  little  local  patriotism  as  Berlin.  A  thou- 
sand miserable  poets  have,  it  is  true,  long  since  celebrated  Berlin, 
both  in  prose  and  in  rhyme,  yet  no  cock  in  Berlin  crowed  their  praise 
and  no  hen  was  cooked  for  them,  and  "  under  the  Lindens"  they  were 
esteemed  miserable  poets  as  before.  On  the  other  hand,  as  little 
notice  is  taken  when  some  bastard  rhymer  lets  fly  in  parabasa* 
directly  at  Berlin.  But  let  any  one  dare  to  write  anything  against 
Polknitz,  Insbruck,  Schiida,  Posen,  Krähwinkel,  or  other  capital 
cities !  How  the  patriotism  of  the  said  places  would  bristle  up ! 
The  reason  of  which  is :  Berlin  is  no  real  town,  but  simply  a  place 
where  many  men,  and  among  them  men  of  intelligence  assemble,  who 
are  utterly  indifferent  as  to  the  place  ;  and  these  persons  form  the 
intelligent  world  of  Berlin.  The  stranger  who  passes  through  sees 
but  the  far-stretching,  uniform-looking  houses,  the  long,  broad  streets, 
built  by  the  line  and  level,  and,  very  generally,  by  the  will  of  some 
particular  person,  but  which  afford  no  clue  to  the  manner  of  think- 
ing of  the  multitude.  Only  Sunday  children!  can  ever  guess  at  the 
private  state  of  mind  of  the  dwellers  therein,  when  they  behold  the 

*  Parabenen — irapäßaais-  In  the  ancient  comedy,  a  passage  addressed  directly  to  the 
audience.   Schola.   Aristoph.,  Nub.  514.— [Note  by  Translator] 

f  Sunday  Children. — Those  who  are  born  on  Sunday  are  supposed,  in  Germany,  to  he 
better  able  to  see  ghosts,  and  to  ho  ve  a  greater  insight  into  spiritual  mysteries  than  other 
poople. 


—    241  - 

long  rows  of  houses,  which,  like  the  men  themselves,  seem  striving 
to  get  as  far  apart  as  possible,  as  if  they  were  staring  at  each  other 
with  mutual  vindictiveness.  Only  once — one  moonlight  night — as  I 
returned  home  late  from  Luther  and  Wegener,  I  observed  that  the 
harsh,  hard  mood  had  melted  into  mild  sorrow,  and  that,  in  reconcilia- 
tion, they  would  fain  leap  into  each  other's  arms ;  so  that  I,  pout 
mortal,  who  was  walking  through  the  middle  of  the  street,  feared  to 
be  squeezed  to  death.  Many  would  have  found  this  fear  laughable, 
and  I  myself  laughed  at  it  when  I,  the  next  morning,  wandered 
soberly  through  the  same  scene,  and  found  the  houses  yawning  as  pro- 
saically at  each  other  as  before.  It  is  true  that  it  requires  several 
bottles  of  poetry,  if  a  man  wishes  to  see  anything  more  in  Berlin 
than  dead  houses  and  Berliners.  Here  it  is  hard  to  see  ghosts.  The 
town  contains  so  few  antiquities,  and  is  so  new ;  and  yet  all  this 
f  new"  is  already  so  old,  so  withered  and  dead.  For,  as  I  said,  it  has 
grown,  in  a  great  degree,  not  from  the  intellect  of  the  people,  but 
from  that  of  individuals.  Frederick  the  Great  is  of  course  the  most 
eminent  among  these.  What  he  discovered  was  the  firm  foundation, 
and  had  nothing  been  built  in  Berlin  since  his  death,  we  should  have 
had  a  historic  monument  of  the  soul  of  that  prosaic,  wondrous  hero, 
who,  with  down-right  German  bravery,  set  forth  in  himself  the  refined 
insipidity  and  flourishing  freedom  of  intelligence,  the  shallowness  and 
the  excellence  of  his  age.  Potsdam,  for  instance,  seems  to  be  such 
a  monument ;  amid  its  deserted  streets  we  wander  among  the  writ- 
ings of  the  philosopher  of  Sans  Souci — it  belongs  to  his  oeuvres 
posthumes,  and  though  it  is  now  but  petrified  waste  paper,  and  looks 
ridiculous  enough,  we  still  regard  it  with  earnest  interest,  and  sup- 
press an  occasional  smile,  when  it  rises,  as  if  we  feared  a  sudden 
blow  across  our  backs  from  the  Malacca  cane  of  "  old  Fritz."  But 
such  feelings  never  assail  us  in  Berlin  ;  we  there  feel  that  old  Fritz 
and  his  Malacca  cane  have  lost  their  power,  or  else  there  would  not 
peep  so  many  a  sickly,  stupid  countenance  from  the  old  enlightened 
windows  of  the  healthy  town  of  reason,  nor  would  so  many  stupid, 
superstitious  houses  have  settled  down  among  the  old  skeptical, 
philosophical  dwellings.  I  would  not  be  misunderstood,  and  expressly 
remark  that  I  am  not  here  in  any  wise  snapping  at  the  new  Werder 
church — that  gothic  temple  in  revived  proportions — which  has  been 
put,  out  of  pure  irony,  between  modern  buildings,  in  order  to  alle- 
gorically  indicate  how  childish  and  stupid  it  would  appear  if  any  one 
were  desirous  of  reviving  the  long  obsolete  institutions  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  among  the  new  formations  of  a  modern  day. 

21 


—    242  — 


The  above  remarks  are  applicable  only  to  the  exterior  of  Berlin, 
and  if  any  one  wishes  to  compare  Munich,  in  this  relation,  to  Berlin, 
he  may  safely  assert  that  it  forms  its  very  opposite.  For  Munich  is 
a  town  built  by  the  people  in  person,  and  by  one  generation  after 
another,  whose  peculiar  spirit  is  still  visible  in  their  architectural 
works  ;  so  that  we  behold  there,  as  in  the  witch  scene  in  Macbeth,  a 
chronological  array  of  ghosts,  from  the  dark  red  spectre  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  who,  in  full  armor,  steps  forth  from  some  ecclesiastical 
Gothic  door-way,  down  to  the  accomplished  and  light-footed  sprite 
of  our  own  age,  who  holds  out  to  us  a  mirror,  in  which  every  one  com- 
placenty  beholds  himself  reflected.  In  all  these  scenes  there  is  some- 
thing which  reconciles  our  feelings  ;  that  which  is  barbaric  does  not 
disturb  us,  and  the  old-fashioned  does  not  seem  repugnant,  when  we 
are  brought  to  regard  it  as  a  beginning  to  that  which  comes  after, 
and  as  a  necessary  transition  state.  We  are  cast  into  an  earnest, 
but  not  unpleasant,  state  of  mind,  when  we  gaze  upon  that  barbaric 
cathedral,*  which  rises,  like  a  colossal  boot-jack,  over  the  entire  city, 
and  hides  in  its  bosom  the  shadows  and  ghosts  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
With  as  little  impatience — yes,  with  quizzical  ease — we  regard  the 
brick-in-their-hat-looking  castles  of  a  later  period — those  plump  Ger- 
man imitations  of  polished  French  unnaturalness,  the  stately  dwel- 
lings of  tastelessness,  madly  ornamental  and  flourishing  from  with- 
out, and  still  more  filagreeishly  decorated  within  with  screamingly 
variegated  allegories,  gilt  arabesques,  stuccoes,  and  those  paintings 
wherein  the  late  nobility,  of  happy  memory,  are  represented — the 
cavaliers  with  red,  tipsy-sober  faces,  over  which  the  long  wigs  fall 
down  like  powdered  lion's  manes — the  ladies  with  stiff  toupees,  steel 
corsets,  which  pressed  their  hearts  together,  and  immense  travelling 
jackets,  which  gave  them  an  all  the  more  prosaic  continuation.  As 
remarked,  this  view  does  not  untune  us ;  it  contributes  all  the  more 
to  make  us  rightly  appreciate  the  present,  and,  when  we  behold  the 
new  works  near  the  old,  we  feel  as  if  a  heavy  wig  had  been  lifted 
from  our  heads,  and  steel  links  unbound  from  about  our  hearts.  I 
here  speak  only  of  the  genial  temples  of  art,  and  noble  palaces,  which 
in  bold  splendor  have  bloomed  forth  from  the  spirit  of  the  great 
master,  Klenze. 


*This  vast  structure,  "the  Church  of  Our  Lady," is  built  entirely  of  large  brick,  and 
was  erected  in  1488.  It  is  remarkable  for  its  two  dome-capped  towers,  333  feet  in  height, 
Within  this  church  is  the  vast  bronze  tomb  of  the  Emperor  Lewis  the  Bavarian. — [Note 

by  Translator.] 


—    243  — 


CHAPTER  III. 

But  after  all,  between  you  and  I,  reader,  when  it  comes  to  calling 
the  whole  town  "a  new  Athens,"  the  designation  is  a  little  absurd, 
and  it  costs  me  not  a  little  trouble  to  represent  it  in  this  light.  This 
went  home  to  my  very  heart  in  the  dialogue  with  the  Berlin  Philis- 
ter, who,  though  he  had  conversed  for  some  time  with  me,  was  unpo- 
lite  enough  to  find  an  utter  want  of  the  first  grain  of  Attic  salt  in 
the  new  Athens. 

"  That,"  he  cried,  tolerably  loudly,  "  is  only  to  be  found  in  Berlin. 
There,  and  there  only,  is  wit  and  irony.  Here  they  have  good  white 
beer — but  no  irony." 

"  No — we  haven't  got  irony,"  cried  Nannerl,  the  pretty,  well 
formed  waiting-maid,  who  at  this  instant  sprang  past  us — "but  you 
can  have  any  other  sort  of  beer." 

It  grieved  me  to  the  heart  that  Nannerl  should  take  irony  to  be 
any  sort  of  beer,  were  it  even  the  best  brew  of  Stettin,  and  to  pre- 
vent her  from  falling  in  future  into  such  errors,  I  began  to  teach  her 
after  the  following  wise  : — "  Pretty  Nannerl,  irony  is  not  beer,  but 
an  invention  of  the  Berlin  people — the  wisest  folks  in  the  world — 
who  were  awfully  vexed  because  they  came  too  late  into  the  world  to 
invent  gunpowder,  and  therefore  undertook  to  find  out  something 
which  should  answer  as  well.  Once  upon  a  time,  my  dear,  when  a 
man  had  said  or  done  something  stupid,  how  could  the  matter  be 
helped  ?  That  which  was  done  could  not  be  undone,  and  people 
said  that  the  man  was  an  ass.  That  was  disagreeable.  In  Berlin, 
where  the  people  are  shrewdest,  and  where  the  most  stupid  things 
happen,  the  people  soon  found  out  the  inconvenience.  The  govern- 
ment took  hold  of  the  matter  vigorously — only  the  greater  blunders 
were  allowed  to  be  printed,  the  lesser  were  simply  suffered  in  conver- 
sation— only  professors  and  high  officials  could  say  stupid  things  in 
public,  lesser  people  could  only  make  asses  of  themselves  in  private — 
but  all  of  these  regulations  were  of  no  avail — suppressed  stupidities 
availed  themselves  of  extraordinary  opportunities  to  come  to  light — 
those  below  were  protected  by  those  above,  and  the  emergency  was 
terrible,  until  some  one  discovered  a  reactionary  means,  whereby 
every  piece  of  stupidity  could  change  its  nature,  and  even  be  meta- 
morphosed into  wisdom.  The  process  is  altogether  simple  and  easy, 
and  consists  simply  in  a  man's  declaring  that  the  stupid  word  or 


—    2U  — 


deed,  of  which  lie  has  been  guilty,  was  meant  ironically.  So,  my  dear 
girl,  all  things  get  along  in  this  world — stupidity  becomes  irony, 
toadyism,  which  has  missed  its  aim,  becomes  satire,  natural  coarse- 
ness is  changed  to  artistic  raillery,  real  madness  is  humor,  ignorance 
real  wit,  and  thou  thyself  art  finally  the  Aspasia  of  the  modern 
Athens." 

I  would  have  said  more,  but  pretty  Nannerl,  whom  I  had  up  to 
this  point  held  fast  by  the  apron  string,  broke  away  loose  by  main 
force,  as  the  entire  band  of  assembled  guests  began  to  roar  for  "  a 
beer — a  beer  I"  in  stormy  chorus.  But  the  Berliner  himself  looked 
like  irony  incarnate  as  he  remarked  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the 
foaming  glasses  were  welcomed,  and  after  pointing  to  a  group  of 
beer-drinkers  who  toasted  their  hop-nectar,  and  disputed  as  to  its 
excellence,  he  said,  smiling,  "  Those  are  your  Athenians  !" 

The  remarks  which  he  availed  himself  of  this  opportunity  to 
shove  in,  fairly  vexed  me,  as  I  must  confess  that  at  heart  I  cherish 
not  a  little  love  for  our  modern  Athens,  and  I  accordingly  improved 
the  occasion  to  intimate  to  my  headstrong  fault-finder  that  the  idea 
had  only  recently  occurred  to  us,  that  we  were  as  yet  raw  hands  at 
modern  Athens-making,  and  that  our  great  minds  as  well  as  the 
better  educated  public,  are  not  yet  so  far  advanced  that  it  will  bear 
looking  at  too  closely.  All  as  yet  is  in  the  beginning  and  far  from 
completion.  Only  the  lower  lines  of  business  have  as  yet  been  taken 
up,  "  and  it  can  scarcely  have  escaped  your  observation  that  we  have 
plenty  of  owls,  sycophants  and  Phrynes."  Only  the  higher  charac- 
ters are  wanting,  and  therefore  many  a  man  must  assume  different 
parts  ;  for  instance,  our  poet  who  sings  the  delicate  Greek  boy-love, 
has  also  taken  on  him  Aristophanic  coarseness ;  but  he  is  capable  of 
anything,  and  possesses  everything  which  a  great  poet  should,  ex 
cept  a  few  trifles,  such  as  wit  or  imagination,  and  if  he  had  much 
money  he  would  be  a  rich  man.  But  what  we  lack  in  quantity  is 
assuredly  made  up  to  us  in  quality.  We  have  but  one  great  sculptor, 
— but  he  is  a  "  Lion."  "We  have  but  one  great  orator,  but  I  believe 
from  my  soul  that  Demosthenes  could  not  thunder  so  loudly  over 
a  malt  tax  in  Attica.  And  if  we  have  never  poisoned  a  Socrates'. 
it  was  not  because  we  lack  poison.  And  if  we  have  as  yet  no  actual 
Demos,  no  entire  populace  of  demagogues,  at  least  we  could  supply 
a  show  sample  of  the  article  in  a  demagogue  by  profession,  who  in 
himself  outweighs  a  whole  pile  of  twaddlers,  muzzlers,  poltroons  and 
similar  blackguards— and  here  he  is  in  person  !" 

I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  describe  the  figure  which  here 


—   245  - 


presented  itself.  I  leave  the  question  open  to  discussion,  whethei 
this  figure  could  with  justice  assert  that  its  head  had  any  thing  human 
in  it,  and  whether  it  could  on  that  account  legally  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered as  human.  I  should  myself  have  taken  this  head  for  that  of 
an  ape,  only  out  of  courtesy,  I  will  let  it  pass  for  a  man's.  Its  cover 
was  a  cloth  cap,  shaped  like  Mambrino's  helmet,  below  which  hung 
down,  long,  stiff,  black  hair,  which  was  parted  in  front  a  Venfant. 
On  that  side  of  this  head,  which  gave  itself  out  for  a  face,  the  Goddess 
of  Vulgarity  had  set  her  seal,  and  that  with  so  much  force  that  the 
nose  had  been  mashed  flat;  the  depressed  eyes  seemed  to  be  seeking 
this  nose  in  vain,  and  to  feel  grieved  because  they  could  not  find  it ; 
an  unpleasantly  smelling  smile  played  around  the  mouth,  which  was 
altogether  enchanting,  and  by  its  extraordinary  likeness  might  have 
inspired  our  Greek  bastard  poet  to  the  most  delicate  "  Gazelles." 
The  clothes  were  firstly  an  Old  German  coat  somewhat  modified,  it 
is  true,  by  the  most  pressing  requisitions  of  modern  European  civili- 
zation, but  still  in  its  cut  recalling  that  worn  by  Arminius,  in  the 
Teutobergiau  forests,  the  primitive  form  of  which  has  been  as  mys- 
teriously and  traditionally  preserved  by  a  patriotic  tailor's  union,  a? 
was  once  Gothic  architecture  by  a  mystical  Freemason's  guild.  A 
white-washed  collar  w'hich  deeply  and  significantly  contrasted  with 
the  bare  old  German^heck,  covered  the  collar  of  this  famous  coat — 
from  the  long  sleeves,  hung  long  dirty  hands,  and  between  these  ap- 
peared a  long,  slow  body,  beneath  which  waddled  two  short,  lively 
legs — the  entire  form  was  a  drunken-sick-dizzy  parody  of  the  Apollo 
Belvidere. 

'*  And  that  is  the  Demagogue  of  the  Modern  Athens  I"  cried  the 
Berliner,  with  a  mocking  laugh.  "Good  Lard  !  can  that  be  a  coun- 
tryman of  mine  !  I  can  hardly  believe  mee  own  eyes !— that  is  the 
one  who — no,  that  is  the  fact !" 

"Yea,  ye  deluded  Berliners,"  I  exclaimed — not  without  excite- 
ment— "  ye  recognize  not  your  own  geniuses,  and  stone  your  prophets. 
But  we  can  make  use  of  all !" 

"  And  what  will  you  do  with  this  unlucky  insect  ?" 

"  He  can  be  used  for  any  thing  where  jumping,  creeping,  senti- 
ment, gormandizing,  piety,  much  old  German,  a  little  Latin,  and  no 
Greek  at  all  is  needed.  He  can  really  jump  very  well  over  a  cane  ; 
makes  tables  of  all  sorts  of  all  possible  leaps,  and  lists  of  all  possible 
ways  of  reading  old  German  poetry.  Withal  he  represents  a  Father- 
land's love  without  being  in  the  least  dangerous.  For  every  one 
knows  that  he  left  the  old  German  demagogues,  among  whom  he 

21* 

 ,  ,  \ 


—   246  — 


accidentally  once  found  himself  very  suddenly,  when  he  found 
that  there  was  danger  afoot,  which  by  no  means  agreed  with  the 
Christian-liKC  feelings  of  his  soft  heart.  But  since  the  danger  has 
passed  away,  the  martyrs  suffered  for  their  opinions,  and  even  our 
most  desperate  barbers  have  doffed  their  old  German  coats;  the 
blooming  season  of  our  prudent  rescuer  of  the  Fatherland  has  really 
begun.  He  alone  has  still  retained  the  demagogue  costume  and  the 
phrases  belonging  to  it,  he  still  exalts  Armtnius  the  Cheruscan,  and 
Thusnelda,  as  though  they  were  blood  relations,  he  still  preserves 
his  German  patriotic  hatred  for  the  Latin  Babeldom,  against  the 
invention  of  soap,  against  Thiersch's  heathen  Greek  Grammar,  against 
Quintilius  Varus,  against  gloves,  and  against  all  men  who  have 
decent  noses  ; — and  so  he  stands  there,  the  wandering  monument  of 
a  passed  away  time,  and  like  the  last  of  the  Mohicans,  so  too  does 
he  remain  the  last  of  the  Demagogues — of  all  that  mighty  horde. 
You  therefore  see  how  we  in  our  Modern  Athens,  where  demagogues 
are  entirely  wanting,  can  use  this  man,  We  have  in  him  a  very  good 
demagogue,  who  is  so  tame  as  to  lick  any  boot,  and  eat  from  the 
hand  hazlenuts,  chestnuts,  cheese,  sausages — in  short,  will  eat  any 
thing  given  to  him,  and  as  he  is  the  only  one  of  his  sort,  we  have  the 
further  advantage  that  when  he  has  kicked  the  bucket,  we  can  stuff 
him  and  keep  him — hide  and  hair- — for  posterity,  as  a  specimen  of  the 
Last  Demagogue.  But,  I  pray  you,  say  nothing  of  all  this  to  Pro- 
fessor Lichtensteix,  in  Berlin,  or  he  will  reclaim  him  for  the  Zoolo- 
gical Museum,  which  might  occasion  a  war  between  Prussia  and 
Bavaria,  as  nothing  would  ever  induce  us  to  give  him  up.  Already 
the  English  are  on  the  qui  vice,  and  bid  two  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  seventy  guineas  for  him ;  already  the  Austrians  have  offered  a 
giraffe  for  him  ;  but  our  ministry  has  expressly  declared  that  the  Last 
of  the  Demagogues  shall  not  be  sold  at  any  price — he  will  one  day  be 
the  pride  of  our  cabinet  of  natural  history,  and  the  ornament  of  our 
town." 

The  Berliner  appeared  to  listen  somewhat  distractedly — more  at- 
tractive objects  had  drawn  his  attention,  and  he  finally  interrupted 
me  with  the  words,  "  Excuse  me,  if  you  please,  if  I  interrupt  you, 
but  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  what  sort  of  a  dog  that  is  which 
runs  there  ?" 

"  That  is  another  puppy." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  understand  me.  I  refer  to  the  great  white  shaggy 
dog  without  a  tail." 

"  My  dear  sir  that  is  the  dog  of  the  modern  Alcibiades." 


—    247  — 


"  But,"  exclaimed  the  Berliner,  ''  where  is  then  the  modern  Alci- 
biades  himself?" 

"To  tell  the  plain  truth,"  I  replied,  "the  office  is  not  as  yet  occu- 
pied, and  we  have  so  far,  only  his  dog." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  place  where  this  conversation  occurred,  is  called  Bogen 
hausen,  or  Neuburghausen,  or  Yilla  Hompesch,  or  the  Montgelas 
Garden,  or  the  Little  Castle — but  there  is  no  need  of  mentioning  its 
name,  for  if  any  one  undertakes  to  ride  out  of  Munich,  the  coachman 
understands  us  by  a  certain  thirsty  twinkle  of  the  eyes — by  well- 
known  noddings  of  the  head,  anticipatory  of  enjoyment,  and  by 
grimaces  of  the  same  family.  The  Arab  has  a  thousand  expressions 
for  a  sword,  the  Frenchman  for  love,  the  Englishman  for  hanging, 
the  German  for  drinking,  and  the  modern  Athenian  for  the  place 
where  he  drinks.  The  beer  is  in  the  place  aforesaid,  really  very  good, 
even  in  tbe  Prytanosum,  vulgo  "  Bokskeller,"  it  is  no  better,  and  it 
tastes  admirably,  especially  on  that  stair  terrace,  where  we  have  the 
Tyrolese  Alps  before  our  eyes.  I  often  sat  there  during  the  past 
winter,  gazing  on  the  snow-covered  mountains,  which  gleaming  in  the 
sun  rays  seemed  like  molten  silver. 

In  those  days  it  was  also  winter  in  my  soul.  Thoughts  and  feelings 
seemed  as  it  were,  snowed  in,  and  my  soul  was  dried  up  and  dead.  To 
this  was  added  political  vexations,  grief  for  a  dearly  loved  lost  child, 
and  an  old  source  of  grief  with  a  bad  cold.  Moreover,  I  drank  much 
beer,  having  been  assured  that  it  made  light  blood.  But  the  best 
Attic  Breihahn*  profited  not  by  me,  who  had  previously  in  England 
accustomed  myself  to  porter. 

At  last  came  the  day  when  all  changed.  The  sun  burst  forth  from 
the  heaven  and  suckled  the  earth,  that  ancient  child,  with  her  gleam- 
ing milk,  the  hills  trembled  with  joy,  and  their  snow-tears  ran  down 
mighty  in  their  power.    The  ice  on  the  lakes  cracked  and  broke,  the 


*  Breihahn,  literally  "brew-cock."  A  few  centuries  ago  the  term  Breihahn  was  applied 
only  to  a  sort  of  Hanoverian  beer.  But  it  is  now  of  more  general  application.  In  the 
treatise  De  Jure  Potandi,  which  forms  a  part  of  the  Facetiae  Facetiarum,  edition  1645,  p. 
61, 1  find  the  following  list  of  the  then  fashionable  beers.  ■  Meo  palatui  magis  ad  blan~ 
düur  cerevisia  Rostochiensis,  Dantziger  Dubbelt  Bier,  Preussingk,  Braunschweigische 
Mumme,  Knisenack,  Hannoversch  Breyhan,  Englischs  Bier,  Zerbster,  Targer,  {quam  Kuo 
kuck)  Bueffel,  Rastrum,  Klatsche. 


—    248  — 


earth  opened  her  blue  eyes,  the  clear  flowers  arid  the  ringing  woods 

ran  forth  from  her  bosom,  the  green  palaces  of  the  nightingales  and 
all  nature  laughed,  and  this  laughter  was  spring.  In  my  soul  there 
began  also  a  new  spring,  new  flowers  sprouted  from  my  heart,  feelings 
of  freedom  like  roses  shot  up,  and  therewith  secret  longings,  like 
young  violets  amid  which  were  many  useless  nettles,  Hope  again 
drew  her  cheerful  green  covering  over  the  graves  of  my  desires,  even 
the  melodies  of  poetry  rame  again  to  me  like  birds  of  passage  who 
have  gone  with  winter  to  the  warm  south,  and  who  now  again  seek 
their  abandoned  nests  in  the  north,  and  the  neglected  northern  heart 
rang  and  bloomed  as  of  old — only  I  knew  not  how  all  this  happened. 
Was  it  a  brown  or  a  blonde  sun  which  awoke  spring  once  more  in 
my  heart,  and  kissed  awake  all  the  sleeping  flowers  in  my  bosom, 
and  laughed  up  the  nightingales  ?  "Was  it  elective  nature  herself 
which  sought  its  echo  in  my  breast,  and  gladly  mirrored  herself  therein 
with  her  fresh  spriug  gleam?  I  know  not,  but  I  believe  that  the 
terrace  at  Bogenhausen,  in  view  of  the  Tyrolese  Alps,  gave  my  heart 
a  new  enchantment.  When  I  sat  there  deeply  buried  in  thought,  it 
often  seemed  to  me  as  though  I  saw  the  countenance  of  a  wondrous 
lovely  youth,  peeping  over  the  mountains,  and  I  longed  for  wings  that 
I  might  hasten  to  his  home-land  Italy.  Often  did  I  feel  myself  sur- 
rounded by  the  perfumes  of  orange  and  lemon  groves,  which  blew 
from  the  hills,  enticing  and  calling  me  to  Italy.  Once  even  in  the 
golden  twilight  I  saw  the  young  Spring  God  large  as  life  standing  on 
the  summit  of  an  Alp.  Flowers  and  laurels  surrounded  his  joyful 
head,  and  with  smiling  eyes  and  merry  mouth,  he  cried  :  "  I  love  thee 
— seek  me  in  Italy !" 


CHAPTER  Y. 

,  My  glance  may  have  quivered  somewhat  longingly,  as  I,  in  doubt 
over  the  unattainable  dialogue  of  the  Philistines,  gazed  at  the  lovely 
Tyrolese  Alps,  and  sighed  deeply.  My  Berlin  Philister,  however, 
saw  in  this  glance  and  sigh,  fresh  subject  for  conversation,  and  sighed 
with  me.  "  Ah,  yes — I  too  would  now  be  so  glad  .to  be  in  Constan- 
tinople !  Have  you  visited  St.  Petersburg  ?"  I  admitted  that  I  had 
not,  and  begged  him  to  narrate  something  of  it.  But  it  was  not  he 
himself,  but  his  brother-in-law,  the  Court  Chamber  Counsellor,  who 
had  been  tnere,  and  it  was  an  altogether  particular  sort  of  a  town. 


—    249  — 


"  Have  you  seen  Copenhagen  though  ?"  Having  replied  in  the  nega- 
tive, I  also  requested  some  sketch  of  the  latter  place,  when  he  laughed 
very- significantly,  nodding  his  head  here  and  there  right  pleasantly, 
assuring  me  upon  his  honor  that  I  could  form  no  sort  of  idea  of  the 
town  if  I  had  not  been  there.  "  That,"  I  replied,  "  cannot  just  at 
present  be  the  case.  I  am  now  thinking  over  another  journey,  which 
first  came  into  my  head  this  spring — I  intend  travelling  in  Italy." 

As  the  man  heard  these  words,  he  suddenly  leaped  from  his  chair, 
pirouetted  three  times  on  one  foot,  and  trilled:  Tirili!  Tirili! 
Virilit 

That  was  the  last  spur.  "  To-morrow  I  start !"  was  my  determi- 
nation on  the  spot.  I  will  delay  no  longer.  I  will  at  once  see  that 
land,  the  mere  mention  of  which  so  inspires  the  dryest  and  most 
common-place  of  mortals,  that  he  at  once,  in  ecstacy,  trills  like  a 
quail.  While  I  at  home  packed  my  trunk,  that  Tirili  rang  con- 
stantly in  my  ears,  and  my  brother,  Maximilian  Heine,  who  the  next 
day  accompanied  me  as  far  as  the  Tyrol,  could  not  comprehend  why 
it  was  that,  on  the  whole  way,  I  did  not  speak  a  single  sensible  word, 
and  constantly  tiril-eed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Tirili  !  Tirili !  I  live !  I  feel  the  sweet  pain  of  existence !  1 
feel  all  the  joys  aud  sorrows  of  life  !  I  suffer  for  the  salvation  of  the 
whole  human  race  !    I  atone  for  their  sins — but  I  also  enjoy  them. 

And  I  also  feel,  not  only  with  humanity,  but  with  the  world  of 
plants.  Their  thousand  green  tongues  narrate  the  sweetest,  gentlest 
tales  to  me — they  know  that  I  have  not  selfish  human  pride,  and  that 
I  converse  as  willingly  with  the  lowliest  meadow  floweret  as  with  the 
loftiest  pines.  Ah  !  I  know  how  it  is  with  those  pines  !  They  shoot 
heaven-high  from  the  depth  of  the  valley,  and  well  nigh  range  over 
the  boldest  mountain  rocks.  But  how  long  does  their  glory  last  ?  At 
the  utmost  a  few  miserable  centuries,  when,  weary  with  age,  they 
break  down  and  rot  on  the  ground.  Then,  by  night,  the  treacherous 
cat  comes  stealing  quickly,  and  mocks  them  :  "  Ha,  ye  strong  pines — 
ye  who  hoped  to  vie  with  the  rocks — now  ye  lie  broken,  adown  there, 
and  the  rocks  stand  unshaken  as  before." 

The  eagle,  who  sits  on  his  favorite  lonely  rocks,  and  listens  to  this 
scorn,  must  feel  pity  in  his  soul — for  he  then  thinks  on  his  own  des- 


—   250  — 


tiny.  For  even  he  knows  not  how  deeply  he  may  some  day  be 
bedded.  But  the  stars  twinkle  so  soothingly,  the  forest  streams  rip- 
ple so  consolingly,  and  his  own  soul  leaps  so  proudly  over  all  petty 
thoughts,  that  he  soon  forgets  them.  When  the  sun  comes  forth,  he- 
feels  as  before  as  he  flies  upwards  to  it,  and  when  near  it,  sings  his 
joy  and  his  pain.  His  fellow  creatures,  especially  men,  believe  that 
the  eagle  cannot  sing,  and  know  not  that  he  only  lifts  his  voice  in 
music  when  far  from  the  realm  which  they  inhabit,  and  that  in  his 
pride  he  will  only  be  heard  by  the  sun.  And  he  is  right,  for  it  might 
occur  to  some  of  the  feathered  mob  down  below  there  to  criticise  his 
song.  I  myself  have  heard  such  critics  ; — the  hen  stands  on  one  leg 
and  clucks  that  the  singer  has  no  "soul ;"  the  turkey  gobbles  that  he 
needs  "  earnest  feeling ;"  the  dove  coos  that  he  cannot  feel  true  love ; 
the  goose  quacks  that  he  is  "ignorant  of  science  ;"  the  capon  chuckles 
out  that  he  is  "immoral;"  the  martin  twitters  that  he  is  irreligious; 
the  sparrow  pipes  that  "he  is  not  sufficiently  prolific ;"  hoopoos* 
popinjays  and  screech-owls, all  cackling,  and  gabbling,  and  yelling; — 
only  the  nightingale  joins  not  in  the  noise  of  these  critics.  Caring 
naught  for  her  cotemporaries,  the  red  rose  is  her  only  thought,  and 
her  only  song ;  deep  lost  in  desire,  she  flutters  around  that  red  rose, 
and  wild  with  inspiration  she  leaps  among  the  loved  thorns,  and  sings 
and  bleeds. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

There  is  an  eagle  in  the  German  Fatherland,  whose  sun-song 
rings  so  powerfully  that  it  may  also  be  heard  here  below,  and  even 
the  nightingales  cease  to  sing,  in  spite  of  all  their  melodious  pains. 
Thou  art  that  eagle,  Karl  Immermann,  and  I  often  think  of  thee  in 
that  land  of  which  thou  hast  sung  so  sweetly.  How  could  I  travel 
through  the  Tyrol  without  thinking  of  the  "  Tragedy?" 

Now,  of  course,  I  have  seen  things  in  another  light ;  but  I  won- 
der that  the  poet,  who  created  from  the  fulness  of  his  soul,  should 
have  approached  so  near  the  reality,  which  he  had  never  seen.  I  was 
most  pleased  with  the  reflection  that  "  The  Tragedy  in  Tyrol"  was 
prohibited.    I  thought  of  the  words  which  my  friend  Moser  wrote 


*  Wiedehoepchen.  Perhaps  this  word  might  he  also  rendered  "  pooh-pooh."  —  [Note  by 
Translator.} 


—    251  — 


me,  when  lie  said  that  the  second  volume  of  the  "  Pictures  of  Travel" 
were  forbidden :  "  It  was  needless  for  government  to  put  the  book 
under  the  ban — people  would  have  read  it  without  that." 

In  Innsbruck,  in  the  Golden  Eagle,  where  Andreas  Hofer  had 
lodged,  and  where  every  corner  is  still  filled  with  his  portraits  and 
mementoes,  I  asked  the  landlord,  Herr  Niederkirchner,  if  he  knew 
anything  of  the  "  Sandwirth."  Then  the  old  gentleman  boiled  over 
with  eloquence,  and  confidentially  informed  me,  with  divers  winks, 
that  the  whole  story  had  at  last  come  out  in  a  book,  which  was,  how- 
ever, altogether  prohibited ;  and  having  led  me  to  a  dark  chamber, 
where  he  carefully  preserved  his  relics  of  the  Tyrolese  war,  unrolled 
from  a  dirty  blue  paper  a  well-thumbed,  green  looking  book,  which  I 
found,  to  my  astonishment,  was  Immermann's  "  Tragedy  in  the  Tyrol." 
I  told  the  landlord,  not  without  pride,  that  the  man  who  had  written 
it  was  my  friend.  Herr  Niederkirchner  would  fain  know  as  much 
as  possible  of  him.  I  said  that  he  was  one  who  had  seen  service,  a 
man  of  good  stature,  very  honorable,  and  very  gifted  in  writing,  so 
that  he  seldom  found  his  like.  But  Herr  Niederkirchner  would  not 
believe  that  he  was  a  Prussian,  and  exclaimed,  with  a  compassionate 
smile,  "  Oh,  get  out  !"*  He  insisted  on  believing  that  Immermann 
was  a  Tyroler,  and  that  he  had  fought  in  the  war  — "  How  else 
could  he  have  known  all  about  it  ?" 

Strange  fancies  these  of  the  multitude  !  They  seek  their  histo- 
ries from  the  poet  and  not  from  the  historian.  They  ask  not  for 
bare  facts,  but  those  facts  again  dissolved  in  the  original  poetry  from 
which  they  sprung.  This  the  poets  well  know,  and  it  is  not  without 
a  certain  mischievous  pleasure  that  they  mould  at  will  popular  memo- 
ries, perhaps  in  mockery  of  pride-baked  historians  and  parchment- 
minded  keepers  of  state-documents.  Greatly  was  I  delighted  when, 
amid  the  stalls  of  the  last  fair,  I  saw  the  history  of  Belisarius  hang- 
ing up  in  the  form  of  coarsely  colored  engravings,  and  those  not 
according  to  PROCOPius,but  exactly  as  described  in  Schenk's  tragedy. 
"  So  history  is  falsified  !"  exclaimed  a  pedantic  friend  who  accom- 
panied me,  "  it  knows  nothing  of  a  slandered  wife,  an  imprisoned  son, 
a  loving  daughter,  and  the  like  modern  fictions  of  the  heart  \"  But 
is  this  really  an  error  ?  Must  suit  be  at  once  brought  against  the 
forger  ?    No,  I  deny  the  accusation  !     For  they  give  the  sense  in  all 


*  Warum  nicht  gar  ?  One  should  have  lived  in  Bavaria,  or  the  Tyrol,  to  appreciate  the 
fall  force  of  this  non-assenting  sentence.    Literally  it  means,  "  Why  not  entirely  bo  ?" 


—    252  — 


its  truthfulness,  though  it  be  clothed  in  inverted  form  and  circum- 
stance. There  are  races  whose  whole  history  has  only  been  handed 
down  in  this  poetic  wise,  such  as  the  Hindoos.  For  such  lays  as  the 
Maha-Barata  give  the  sense  and  spirit  of  Indian  history  far  more 
accurately  than  any  writer  of  compendiums,  could  with  all  his  chro- 
nology. From  the  same  point  of  view,  I  would  assert  that  Walter 
Scott's  romances  give,  occasionally,  the  spirit  of  English  history  far 
more  truthfully  than  Hume  has  done ;  at  least,  Sartorius  was  very 
much  in  the  right  when  he,  in  his  supplement  to  Spittler,  places 
those  romances  among  English  historical  works. 

It  is  with  poets  as  with  dreamers,  who  in  sleep  disguise  those 
internal  feelings,  which  their  souls  experience  from  real  external 
causes,  since  they  at  once  assign  on  the  spot  by  dreaming,  to  the 
the  latter,  altogether  different  causes  from  the  real,  which,  however, 
in  one  respect,  amount  to  the  same  thing,  in  that  they  bring  forth  the 
same  feelings.  So,  in  Immermanx's  "Tragedy,"  many  dramatic  attri- 
butes are  rather  arbitrarily  added,  but  the  hero  himself,  the  central 
point  of  feeling,  is  accurately  dreamed,  and  if  this  dream-form  seems 
visionary,  it  is  still  truthful.  Baron  Hormatr,  who  is  the  most 
competent  judge  of  this  matter,  turned  my  attention  to  this  circum- 
stance, when  I  on  a  recent  occasion  had  the  pleasure  of  conversing 
with  him.  Immermann  has  very  accurately  set  forth  the  mystical 
individual  life,  the  superstitious  piety,  and  the  epic  character  of  the 
man.  He  symbolised  to  the  life  that  true-hearted  dove,  who  with  a 
glittering  sword  in  the  bill  swept  so  heroically  like  martial  love  true 
over  the  hills  of  Tyrol,  until  the  bullets  of  Mantua  penetrated  her 
heart. 

But  what  is  most  honorable  to  the  poet,  is  the  equally  accurate 
description  of  the  opponent  whom  he  has  not  described  as  a  raging 
Gessler,  merely  to  exalt  his  adversary.  If  the  one  be  a  dove  with  the 
sword,  the  latter  is  not  less  an  eagle  with  the  olive  branch. 


CHAPTER  Till. 

In  the  public  room  of  the  inn  of  Herr  Niederkirchner,  at  Inns- 
bruck, hang  side  by  side  in  peaceful  unison,  the  portraits  of  Andreas 
Hofer,  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  and  Louis  of  Bavaria. 

Innsbruck  itself  is  an  uninhabitable,  stupid  town.  It  may,  perhaps, 
appear  more  intelligent  and    agreeable  in  winter,  when  the  high 


—   253  — 


mountains  with  which  it  is  surrounded  are  covered  with  snow,  and 
the  avalanches  thunder  and  ice  cracks  and  glitters  all  around. 

I  found  the  summits  of  those  mountains  covered  with  clouds  as  with 
grey  turbans.  There  we  see  the  Martinswand,  the  theatre  of  the 
pleasantest  imperial  legends,  since  it  is  especially  in  the  Tyrol  that 
the  memories  of  the  knightly  Max,  flourish  and  ring. 

In  the  Hof  kirche — royal  church — stand  the  celebrated  full-length 
statues  of  the  princes  and  the  princesses  of  the  House  of  Austria, 
with  their  ancestors ;  among  whom  are  many,  who  doubtless  wonder 
even  at  the  present  day  how  they  came  by  the  honor.  They  stand 
in  mighty  life-size,  cast  in  iron,  around  the  tomb  of  Maximilian.  But 
as  the  church  is  small  and  roof  low,  they  put  one  in  mind  of 
figures  of  black  wax  in  a  booth  in  a  fair.  On  the  pedestal  of  most, 
we  can  also  read  the  names  of  those  whom  they  represent.  As  I 
looked  at  these  statues,  an  English  party  entered ;  the  leader  being  a 
lean  man  with  a  gaping  countenance,  his  thumbs  hooked  into  the 
armholes  of  his  white  vest,  and  holding  between  his  teeth  a  leathern 
Guide  des  Voyageurs.  Behind  him  came  his  tall  companion  for  life, 
a  lady  no  longer  young,  and  who  had  apparently  both  lived  and  loved 
herself  out,  but  still  quite  good-looking.  Behind  them  came  a  red 
porter-face  in  powder  white  trimmings,  treading  stiffly  along  in  a  ditto 
coat — his  wooden  hands  fully  freighted  with  my  lady's  gloves,  Alpine 
flowers,  and  a  poodle. 

The  trinity  walked  straight  as  a  plumb  line  to  the  upper  end  of  the 
church,  where  the  son  of  Albion  explained  the  statue  to  his  wife,  and 
that  from  his  guide  book,  in  which  he  read  at  full  length  the  descrip- 
tions. The  first  statue  is  that  of  King  Clodevig  of  France,  the  next 
that  of  King  Arthur  of  England,  the  third  Eudolph  of  Hapsburg,  and 
so  forth.  But  as  the  poor  Englishman  began  by  mistake  the  row 
from  above  instead  of  from  below,  as  his  guide-book  directed,  he  fell 
into  the  most  exquisite  blunders,  which  were  still  more  comic  when 
he  came  to  some  lady's  statue,  which  he  mistook  for  that  of  a  man, 
and  vice  versa,  so  that  he  could  not  comprehend  why  Eudolph  of 


*  In  the  original,  Heine  uses  the  word  Kleeblatt,  or  clover  leaf,  which  (like  trifdlium,  in 
mediaeval  Latin)  signifies  in  German,  a  company  of  three.  It  was  doubtless  an  association 
with  the  Trinity  which  caused  the  clover  leaf  company  of  three  to  he  regarded  as  pecu- 
liarly correct.  Compagnie  de  trois,  Compagnie  dc  Roys,  says  an  old  French  proverb.  In 
the  drinking  language  of  the  Knights  of  the  Middle  Ages  a  clover  leaf  meant  the  drain- 
ing of  three  large  goblets  of  wine,  each  one  at  a  draught.  In  modern  German  student 
phrase  it  is  applied  to  a  qua r, turn  of  drit-king  utousils  for  three  persons,  or  a  Saufffe- 
sellsschafi  or  club  ofthat  member.— [Note  bv  Translator.] 

22 


—    254  — 


Hapsburg  wore  petticoats,  or  why  Queen  Maria  had  donned 
steel  breeches,  and  had  a  much  too  long  beard.  I,  who  was  willing 
to  help  him  out  with  my  learning,  casually  remarked  that  that  was 
probably  the  fashion  in  those  days,  and  it  might  have  also  been  a 
peculiar  freak  of  those  dignitaries,  so  that  people  dared  not  for  their 
lives  cast  them  otherwise.  So  if  it  came  into  the  head  of  the  then 
emperor  to  have  himself  "  run"  in  petticoats  or  swaddling  bands,  who 
dared  object  to  his  fancy  ? 

The  poodle  barked  critically,  the  lackey  stared,  the  gentleman 
rubbed  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  and  my  lady  said :  "Afine 
exhibition,  veryßne,  indeed!" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Brixen  was  the  second  great  town  of  the  Tyrol  which  I  entered. 
It  lies  in  a  valley,  and  as  I  arrived  there  it  was  covered  over  with 
mist  and  the  shadows  of  evening.  Twilight,  silence,  melancholy 
ding-donging  of  bells,  sheep  trotting  to  their  sheds,  human  beings  to 
churches,  everywhere  an  oppressive  smell  of  ugly  saint's  images  and 
dry  hay. 

"  The  Jesuits  are  in  Brixen."  So  I  had  read  not  long  before  in 
Hesperus.  I  looked  everywhere  around  the  streets  to  find  them,  but 
saw  nobody  who  looked  like  a  Jesuit,  unless  it  were  a  fat  man  in  a 
clerical  three-cornered  hat  and  a  priestly-cut  black  coat,  rather  old 
and  worn  out,  which  contrasted  strangely  with  his  shining  new  black 
breeches. 

"  That  can  be  no  Jesuit,"  said  I,  finally  to  myself— for  I  have 
always  pictured  Jesuits  to  myself  as  rather  lean.  But  are  there 
really  any  Jesuits  ?  It  often  seems  to  me  that  their  existence  is  only  a 
chimera,  as  though  it  were  only  a  fear  of  them  which  still  goes  ghost- 
ing* about  in  our  heads,  long  after  the  peril  is  over ;  and  all  the  zeal 
still  manifested  against  Jesuits  puts  me  in  mind  of  people,  who  long 
after  it  has  ceased  to  rain,  go  walking  about  with  opened  and  lifted 
umbrellas.  Yes — I  often  think  that  the  Devil,  Nobility,  and  Jesuits 
exist  only  as  long  as  we  believe  in  them.  We  know  it  in  truth  of 
the  Devil,  for  only  the  believers  have  ever  seen  him.  Also  as  regards 


*  SpuTcen— to  appear  as  a  ghost — to  ghost  it.  In  plain  Pennsylvania  English,  we  Bay 
to  spook 


—   255  — 


the  nobility,  we  shall  soon  experience  that  the  bonne  soci^has  ceased 
to  exist  so  soon  as  the  good  citizen  takes  it  into  his  head  not  to  regard 
them  any  longer  as  the  bonne  society.  But  the  Jesuits !  At  least  they 
no  longer  wear  the  old  breeches.  The  old  Jesuits  lie  in  their  graves 
with  their  old  breeches,  their  longings,  their  world  plans,  their  ranks, 
distinctions,  reservations,  and  poisons,  and  what  we  now  see  slipping 
through  the  world  in  new  shining  breeches,  is  not  as  much  their  spirit 
as  their  spectre,  an  awkward,  silly,  weak-minded  spectre,  which  daily 
seems  striving  by  word  and  deed  to  convince  us  how  little  there  is 
terrible  in  it ;  and  indeed  it  reminds  us  of  a  similar  ghost  in  the  Thu- 
ringian  forest,  which  freed  those  who  were  terrified  at  it  from  all 
terror,  by  taking  its  skull  from  its  shoulders  and  showing  all  the 
world  that  it  was  hollow  and  empty. 

I  cannot  refrain  from  mentioning  by  the  way,  that  I  accidentally 
learned  more  of  the  man  in  the  shining  new  breeches,  and  ascertained 
that  he  was  no  Jesuit,  but  only  one  of  the  common  sort  of  the  Lord's 
cattle.  For  I  met  him  in  the  public  room  of  my  inn,  where  he  was 
taking  supper  in  company  with  a  long,  lean  man,  entitled  "  Ex- 
cellency," who  resembled  the  old  bachelorly  country  squire,  de- 
scribed by  Shakspeare,  as  closely  as  if  Nature  had  plagiarised  him 
from  the  great  author.  Both  enjoyed  their  meals,  while  they  perse- 
cuted the  girl  who  waited  on  them  with  caresses,  which  seemed  to 
disgust  to  the  last  degree  the  charming,  beautiful  creature,  until  she 
finally  broke  from  them  by  main  force,  when  the  one  clapped  her 
smartly  behind,  while  the  other  sought  to  embrace  her  in  front.  Then 
they  began  with  the  lewdest  jests,  which  the  maiden,  as  they  well 
knew,  could  not  help  hearing,  as  she  was  obliged  to  remain  in  the 
room  and  wait  on  the  company,  and  spread  my  table.  But  when, 
finally,  their  language  became  literally  intolerable,  she  at  once  left 
every  thing  standing  and  disappeared  through  the  door.  When  she 
returned,  which  was  not  for  some  minutes,  it  was  with  a  little  child 
on  her  arm,  which  she  continued  to  hold  during  the  time  that  she 
remained  in  the  room,  though  it  greatly  impeded  her  movements. 
But  the  two  companions — the  clerical  as  well  as  the  noble  gentleman — 
did  not  venture  any  more  to  insult  the  girl,  who  now  without  mani- 
festing any  ill-feeling,  but  still  with  singular  seriousness  waited  on  them 
until  the  end.  Their  language  took  another  direction — both  con- 
versed on  the  usual  subjects  of  conspiracies  against  the  throne  and 
the  altar,  they  agreed  on  the  necessity  of  strong  measures,  and  often 
clasped  in  turn  the  hand  of  holy  alliance. 


—   256  — 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  works  of  Joseph  von  Hormayr  are  indispensable  to  him  who 
would  study  the  history  of  the  Tyrol,  while  for  its  more  recent 
records,  he  himself  is  the  best,  and  in  many  respects  the  only  source. 
He  is  for  the  Tyrol  what  John  yon  Müller  is  for  Switzerland  ;  a 
comparison  which  frequently  suggests  itself.  They  are  like  next 
neighbors — both  were  inspired  in  early  youth  for  the  Alps  of  their 
birth — both  are  industrious,  searching  minds,  of  historical  feeling  and 
training.  John  yon  Müller,  of  an  epic  turn,  cradling  his  soul  in 
histories  of  the  past.  Joseph  yon  Hormayr,  quick  and  earnest  in 
his  feelings,  is,  on  the  other  hand,  impelled  more  energetically  into 
the  future,  unselfishly  venturing  his  life  for  that  wlvch  was  dear  to 
him. 

Bartholdy's  "War  of  the  Tyrolese  Peasantry  in  the  year  1809" 
is  an  intelligent  and  well  written  work,  and  if  it  has  its  defects,  it  is 
because  its  writer,  as  is  natural  for  a  noble  soul,  was  prejudiced  in 
favor  of  the  weaker  party,  and  because  he  still  had  gunpowder  smoke 
in  his  eyes  when  he  wrote. 

Many  remarkable  events  of  that  time  have  never  been  written  down, 
and  exist  as  yet  only  in  the  memory  of  the  people,  who  do  not  wil- 
lingly speak  of  them,  as  they  awaken  hopes  which  were  deceived. 
The  poor  Tyrolese  were  obliged  to  go  through  many  harsh  expe- 
riences, and  if  you  ask  them  now  if  they  obtained,  as  a  reward  for 
their  fidelity,  all  which  was  promised  them,  they  good-naturedly  shrug 
their  shoulders,  and  answer,  naively,  that  perhaps  things  were  not 
meant  quite  so  much  in  earnest  as  they  thought — that  the  Emperor 
has  a  great  deal  to  think  of — and  that  much  passes  unnoticed  through 
his  head. 

Console  yourselves,  poor  rogues !  Ye  are  not  the  only  ones  to 
whom  something  was  promised.  It  often  happens,  on  board  great 
slave-ships,  in  terrible  storms,  and  amid  dangers,  that  they  break  the 
chains  of  the  blacks,  and  promise  them  their  freedom  if  they  save  the 
vessel.  The  silly  negroes  rejoice  at  the  light  of  day,  they  hurry  to 
the  pumps,  they  stamp  in  their  strength,  aid  where  they  can,  leap, 
haul,  coil  the  cables,  and  work  until  the  peril  is  past.  Then,  of 
course,  as  any  one  might  suppose,  they  are  put  again  into  the  hold, 
chained  nicely  down,  and  left  in  their  darkness  to  make  demagogical 
reflections  on  the  promises  of  slave-dealers,  whose  only  care  is,  the 
danger  being  over,  to  swindle  some  more  souls  into  their  power. 

21* 


—    257  — 

0  navis  referent  in  mare  te  novi. 

Flucht  s? 

When  my  old  teacher  used  to  explain  this  ode  of  Horace,  in  which 
the  senate  is  compared  to  a  ship,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  making  all 
sorts  of  political  reflections,  which  he  abruptly  suspended  after  the 
battle  of  Leipzig  had  been  fought,  and  the  whole  class  was  suddenly 
broken  up. 

My  old  teacher  knew  it  all  beforehand.  When  we  first  heard  of 
the  battle,  he  shook  his  grey  head.  Now  I  know  what  that  shaking 
meant.  Soon  we  had  more  accurate  intelligence,  and  in  secret  peo- 
ple showed  one  another  pictures,  in  which  we  saw,  in  varied  and 
instructive  form,  how  the  higher  leaders  of  the  armies  knelt  on  the 
field  of  battle  and  thanked  God. 

"  Yes — they  might  thank  God,"  said  my  teacher,  and  smiled  as  he 
was  accustomed  to  do  when  he  commented  on  Sallust.  "The  Em- 
peror Napoleon  has  rapped  them  so  often  on  the  liead,  that  they 
must  eventually  learn  something." 

Then  came  the  Allies,  and  the  miserable  poems  of  the  Liberation, 
Hermann  and  Thusnelda,  Hurrah  and  the  Female  Union,  and  the 
Fatherland's  Acorns,  and  the  everlasting  boasting  of  the  battle  of 
Leipzig,  and  once  again  the  battle  of  Leipzig,  and  no  end  thereof. 

"  It  is  with  these  people,"  remarked  my  teacher,  "  as  with  the 
Thebans,  when  they  finally,  at  Leuctra,  overcame  the  mighty  Spar- 
tans, and  continually  boasted  of  it,  so  that  Antisthenes  compared 
them  to  boys  who  can,  having  once  beaten  their  master,  never  cease 
their  rejoicings.  My  dear  youths — it  would  have  been  better  for  us 
had  we  ourselves  got  the  whipping." 

Soon  after  the  old  man  died.  Prussian  grass  now  grows  over  his 
grave,  and  there  also  are  pastured  the  horses  of  our  renewed  nobility. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  Tyrolese  are  handsome,  cheerful,  honorable,  brave,  and  of 
inscrutable  narrowness  of  mind.  They  are  a  healthy  race,  perhaps 
because  they  are  too  stupid  to  be  sick.  I  would  also  call  them  a 
noble  race,  because  they  evince  much  discrimination  in  their  food, 
and  keep  their  houses  very  clean,  only  they  entirely  lack  the  feeling 
of  personal  dignity.  The  Tyrolese  has  a  sort  of  laughing,  humorous 
eervilism,  which  wears  an  almost  ironical  air,  but  which  is  intended 
to  be  thoroughly  honorable.    The  girls  in  the  Tyrol  greet  you  so 

22* 


—    258  — 


amiably,  and  the  men  press  your  hand  so  severely,  and  behave  them- 
selves with  such  ornamental  earnestness,  that  you  can  almost  believe 
that  they  treat  you  like  a  near  relation,  or  at  least  like  one  of  them- 
selves— but  you  are  wide  of  the  mark ;  they  never  forget  that  they 
are  but  common  people,  and  that  you  are  a  gentleman,  who  likes  to 
see  common  people  speak  to  him  without  shyness.  And  in  this  their 
instincts  are  true  to  nature,  for  the  stiffest  aristocrats  are  pleased 
when  they  can  find  an  opportunity  of  laying*  aside  their  dignity,  for 
it  is  by  the  descent  that  they  realize  how  high  they  are  placed.  At 
home  the  Tyrolese  exercise  this  servility  gratis — when  abroad,  they 
use  it  to  enrich  themselves.  They  set  a  price  on  their  personality 
and  nationality.  These  dealers  in  variegated  table-covers — these 
jolly  Tyrolese  fellows  [Tyroler  Bua) — whom  we  see  travelling  about 
in  their  national  costume,  willingly  let  you  crack  a  joke  on  them — ■ 
but  you  must  buy  something  of  them.  The  Rainer  family,  who 
were  in  England,  understood  the  business,  and  had  good  advisers 
into  the  bargain,  who  well  understood  the  spirit  of  the  English 
nobility.  This  was  the  cause  of  their  gracious  reception  in  that 
foyer  of  European  aristocracy,  the  West  End  of  London.  When  I 
stood,  last  summer,  in  the  brilliant  concert-halls  of  the  London 
fashionable  world,  and  saw  those  Tyrolese  singers,  in  their  national  cos- 
tume, mount  the  stage,  and  listened  to  those  lays  which  are  jodeled 
with  such  good  and  naive  expression,  and  which  ring  so  pleasantly  in 
our  northern  German  heart— it  all  ate  with  bitter  discontent  into  my 
soul,  the  gratified  laughter  of  aristocratic  lips  stung  me  like  ser- 
pents— it  seemed  as  though  I  saw  the  purity  of  the  German  tongue 
profaned,  and  the  sweetest  mysteries  of  German  spirit  life  degraded 
before  a  foreign  mob.  I  could  not  applaud  this  shameless  trafficking 
in  the  most  reserved  feelings,  and  a  Swiss,  who,  inspired  with  the 
same  feelings,  left  with  me  the  hall,  very  truly  remarked  :  "  We*Swiss 
trade  for  money  the  best  things  we  have — our  cheese  and  our  best 
blood — but  we  cannot  hear  the  Alpine  horn  blown  in  foreign  lands — 
much  less  play  on  it  ourselves,  for  money." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Tyrol  is  very  beautiful,  but  the  most  beautiful  landscapes  cannot 
enchant  us  when  darkened  by  gloomy  weather,  and  similar  causes 
of  mental  excitement.    This  is  always  the  case  with  me,  and  when 


—    259  — 


there  is  bad  weather  without,  I  invariably  find  bad  weather  within. 
I  only  occasionally  dared  put  my  head  out  of  the  wagon,  and  then  I 
beheld  mountains  high  as  the  Heaven,  which  looked  earnestly  down 
on  me,  and  nodded  to  me  with  their  monstrous  heads  and  cloud-beards, 
a  pleasant  journey.  Here  and  there  I  beheld  a  far-blue  hill,  which 
seemed  travelling  along  on  foot,  and  to  peep  inquisitively  over  the  head 
of  other  hills,  as  if  to  look  at  me.  Every  where  crashed  the  forest 
streams,  which  leaped  as  if  mad  from  the  mountains,  and  met  in  the 
whirlpools  of  the  valleys.  The  inhabitants  lay  snug  in  their  neat, 
clean  little  cottages,  which  for  the  greater  part  lie  scattered  on  the 
steepest  cliffs,  and  on  the  very  edge  of  precipices,  and  these  neat, 
clean  little  cottages  are  generally  ornamented  with  long  balcony- 
like galleries,  which  in  turn  are  bedecked  with  linen,  images  of  saints, 
flower-pots,  and  pretty  girls.  These  cottages  are  also  prettily  painted, 
mostly  with  white  and  green,  as  if  they  too  had  a  fancy  to  wear  the 
national  costume  of  green  suspenders  over  a  white  shirt.  "When  I 
beheld  these  houses  far  away  amid  the  lonely  rain,  my  heart  would 
fain  climb  up  to  them,  and  to  their  inhabitants,  who  beyond  doubt 
sat  dry  aud  jolly  enough,  within.  "  In  these,"  thought  I,  "  they  must 
live  pleasantly  and  domestically  enough,  and  beyond  doubt  the  old 
grandmother  tells  the  most  confidential  tales."  While  the  coach 
went  on  without  mercy,  I  often  looked  back  to  see  the  little  blue 
pillars  of  smoke  climbing  from  the  chimnies,  and  then  it  rained  harder 
than  ever,  both  without  and  within,  until  the  tear-drops  ran  out  of 
my  eyes. 

But  my  heart  often  rose  and  climbed  in  spite  of  the  weather  to  the 
men  who  dwell  high  up  on  the  mountains,  and  perhaps  hardly  came 
down  once  in  a  life  time,  and  learn  but  little  of  what  is  passing  here 
below.  Yet  they  are  not  on  that  account  less  good  or  happy.  They 
know  nothing  of  politics,  save  that  they  have  an  emperor  who  wears  a 
white  coat  and  red  breeches,  as  they  have  learned  from  an  old  uncle 
who  had  learned  it  himself  in  Innsbruck,  from  Black  Joe,  who  had 
been  in  Vienna.  And  when  the  patriots  climbed  up  to  them,  and  told 
them  with  oratory  that  they  now  had  a  prince  who  wore  a  blue  coat 
and  white  breeches,  they  grasped  their  rifles,  and  kissed  wife  and 
child,  and  went  down  the  mountain  and  offered  up  their  Uvea  in 
defence  of  the  white  coat  and  the  dear  old  red  breeches. 

After  all  it  amounts  to  about  one  and  the  same  thing,  for  what  we  die, 
if  we  only  die  for  something  we  love,  and  a  warm  true-hearted 
death  like  this  is  better  than  a  cold  false  life.  The  very  songs  of  such 
a  death  warm  our  hearts,  with  their  sweet  rhymes  and  bright  words 


—   260  — 


when  damp  clouds  and  pressing  sorrows  would  fain  render  it  dark 

and  gloomy. 

Many  such  songs  rang  in  my  heart  as  I  crossed  the  Tyrolese  moun- 
tains. The  confiding  fir-trees  rustled  many  forgotten  love-words,  back 
into  my  memory.  Particularly  when  the  great  blue  mountain  lakes 
gazed  on  me,  with  such  endless  longing  did  I  recall  "the  two  king's- 
children"  who  loved  so  dearly  and  died  together.  It  is  an  old,  old 
story,  which  nobody  believes  now,  and  of  which  I  myself  only  reinem 
ber  a  few  rhymes.  " 

"  They  both  were  monarch's  children, 
And  loved  right  well,  I  ween, 
But  never  could  come  together, 
For  water  was  rolling  between. 

"  Dear  heart  canst  thou  swim  hither, 
Dear  heart  so  swim  to  me, 
I'll  light  thee  from  my  window, 
It  shall  thy  beacon  be !" 

These  words  began  to  ring  in  my  heart,  as  1,  on  an  opposite  lake, 
oeheld  on  one  side  a  little  boy,  and  on  the  other  a  little  girl,  both 
prettily  dressed  in  their  variegated  national  costume  with  little 
ribboned  green  taper  hats  on  their  heads,  wafting  greetings  to  one 
another — 

"  But  never  could  come  together, 
For  water  was  rolling  between." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

In  Southern  Tyrol,  the  weather  cleared  up,  the  sun  of  Italy  made 
itself  felt,  even  at  a  distance,  the  hills  became  warmer  and  brighter, 
I  saw  vines  rising  on  them,  and  I  could  lean  oftener  out  of  the  car- 
riage windows.  But  when  I  thus  leaned  out  there  leaned  with  me 
my  heart,  and  with  my  heart  all  its  love,  sorrow,  and  folly.  And  it 
often  happened  that  the  poor  heart  was  torn  by  the  thorns  when  it 
leaned  toward  the  rose-bushes  by  the  way-side — and  the  roses  of 
Tyrol  are  not  ugly.  "When  I  rode  through  Steiuach  and  saw  the 
market-place  where  Immermann  represents  the  "  Sand-landlord,'"' 


i 


—   261  — 


Hofer,  as  coming  boldly  forth  with  his  companions,  I  found  that  the 
spot  was  too  small  for  an  insurgent  meeting,  but  large  enough  to  fall 
in  love  in.  There  are  only  a  few  white  houses  there,  and  from  a  small 
window  there  peeped  out  a  little  Sand  Landlady,  aiming  and  shooting 
from  great  eyes — if  the  coach  had  not  travelled  by  so  quickly,  and 
had  she  had  time  to  load  again,  I  should  have  been  shot  dead  for 
certain.  I  called  out,  "  Go  ahead,  coachman — there  is  no  joking 
with  such  a  '  fair  Elsie' — such  eyes  would  set  fire  to  the  house  over 
one's  head  !"  As  an  experienced  traveller,  I  must  confess  that  the 
landlady  iu  Sterzing  is  really  an  old  woman — but  she  has  two  young 
daughters  whose  eyes  warm  the  heart  of  the  traveller  as  he  steps  out 
of  the  coach,  in  a  most  beneficial  manner.  But  I  cannot  forget  thee, 
thou  fairest  of  all,  thou  lovely  spinner  on  the  marches  of  Italy  !  Oh, 
hadst  thou  given  to  me  as  Ariadne  gave  to  Theseus  the  thread  of 
thy  spinning  to  lead  me  through  the  labyrinth  of  life,  I  had  long 
since  conquered  the  Minotaur,  and  I  would  love  thee,  and  kiss  thee, 
and  never  leave  thee  ! 

"  It  is  a  good  sign  when  women  laugh,"  says  a  Chinese  author,  and 
a  German  writer  was  of  precisely  the  same  opinion,  when  in  Southern 
Tyrol,  just  where  Italy  begins,  he  passed  a  mountain,  at  whose  base 
on  a  low  foundation,  he  passed  one  of  those  neat  little  houses  which 
look  so  lovely  with  their  snug  gallery  and  naive  paintings.  On  one 
side  stood  a  great  wooden  crucifix,  supporting  a  young  vine,  so  that 
it  looked  horribly  cheerful,  like  life  twining  around  death,  to  see  the 
soft  green  branches  hanging  around  the  bloody  body  and  crucified 
limbs.  On  the  other  side  of  the  cottage  was  a  round  dove-cote  whose 
feathered  population  flew  here  and  there,  while  one  very  gentle  white 
dove  sat  on  the  pretty  gabled  roof,  which,  like  a  pious  niche  over  a 
saint,  rose  over  the  head  of  the  lovely  spinner.  She,  the  fair  one,  sat 
on  the  little  gallery  and  span — not  according  to  the  German  method, 
but  in  that  world-old  manner,  by  which  a  distaff  is  held  under  the  arm, 
and  the  thread  descends  with  the  loose  spindle.  So  of  old  span 
kings'  daughters  in  Greece — so  at  the  present  day  spin  the  fates  and 
all  Italian  women.  She  span  and  laughed,  the  dove  sat  still  over 
her  head,  while  far  over  house  and  all  rose  the  mountains,  their  snowy 
summits  glittering  in  the  sun,  so  that  they  seemed  like  giants  with 
polished  helmets  on  their  heads. 

She  span  and  smiled ;  and  I  believe  that  she  spun  my  heart  fast, 
as  the  coach  went  along  somewhat  more  slowly,  on  account  of  the 
broad  stream  of  the  Eisach.  The  dear  features  remained  all  day  ic 
my  memory — every  where  I  beheld  nothing  save  a  lovely  face,  which 


—   262  — 


seemed  as  though  a  Grecian  sculptor  had  carved  it  from  the  perfume 
of  a  white  rose,  in  such  breath-like  delicacy,  such  beatific  nobility, 
that  I  could  believe  he  had  dreamed  it  of  a  spring  night.  But  those 
eyes ! — ah,  no  Greek  could  ever  have  imagined  or  comprehended  them. 
But  I  saw  and  comprehended  those  romantic  stars  which  so  magic- 
ally illumined  the  glory  of  the  antique.  All  day  long  I  saw  them, 
and  all  night  long  I  dreamed  of  them.  There  she  sat  again  smiling, 
the  doves  fluttering  around  like  angels  of  love,  even  the  white  dove 
over  her  head,  mystically  flapped  its  wings  ;  behind  her  rose  mightier 
than  ever  the  helmet  warriors,  before  her  roared  along  more  stormily 
the  brook,  the  vine-branches  climbed  in  wilder  haste  the  crucified 
wrooden  image,  which  quivered  with  pain,  and  the  suffering  eyes  opened, 
and  the  wounds  bled,  and — she,  however,  sat  still  and  span,  and  on 
the  thread  of  her  distaff,  like  a  dancing  spindle,  hung  my  own  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

While  the  sun  gleamed  ever  lordlier  and  lovelier  from  heaven,  cloth- 
ing mountain  and  castle  with  golden  veils,  it  still  became  hotter  and 
livelier  in  my  heart,  once  more  my  whole  bosom  was  full  of  flowers, 
which  shot  forth  sprouting  mightily  over  my  head,  and  through  the 
flowers  from  my  heart  smiled  heavenly  fair  the  face  of  the  lovely  spinner. 
Imprisoned  in  such  dreams — myself  a  dream — I  came  to  Italy,  and 
as  I  during  the  journey  had  entirely  forgotten  that  I  was  travelling, 
I  was  well  nigh  terrified  when  all  at  once  all  the  great  Italian  eyes 
opened  on  me,  and  the  variegated,  tangled  life  of  Italy  came  leaping 
towards  me  ;  real,  warm,  and  humming ! 

All  of  this  happened  to  me,  however,  in  the  city  of  Trent,  one  fine 
Sunday  afternoon,  at  the  hour  when  the  heat  goes  to  sleep,  and  the 
Italians  wake  up  and  go  walking  about  the  streets.  This  town  lies, 
old  and  broken  amid,  a  broad  circle  of  blooming  green  hills,  which 
like  eternal  young  gods  look  down  on  the  ancient  broken  works  of 
man.  Broken  and  brittle  too,  near  the  latter  lies  the  high  castle 
which  once  ruled  the  town,  a  daring  building  of  a  daring  time,  with 
spires,  pinnacles,  battlements,  and  a  broad  round  tower  inhabited  by 
owls  and  Austrian  invalids.  Even  the  town  itself  is  wildy  built,  and 
at  the  first  glance  it  produces  a  wonderful  effect,  with  its  awfully  old 
houses,  with  their  faded  frescoes  and  cracked  saints'  images — with 
their  towers,  porticoes,  barred  windows,  and  those  projecting  roofs 


-    263  - 


which  rest  like  balconies  on  old  grey  pillars  which  seem  themselves 
to  require  support.  Such  a  sight  would  have  been  all  too  sorrowful 
had  not  nature  refreshed  the  dead  stones  with  new  life,  had  not  sweet 
vine  leaves  lovingly  and  tenderly  embraced  the  broken  old  pillars,  as 
youth  embraces  age,  and  still  sweeter  maidens'  faces  had  not  peeped 
from  the  melancholy  old  arched  windows,  and  smiled  on  the  German 
stranger,  who  like  a  sleep-wandering  dreamer  walked  strangely  here 
and  there  among  the  blooming  ruins. 

I  was  really  as  in  a  dream,  and  one  of  those  dreams,  too,  wherein 
we  strive  to  recal  something  we  have  dreamed  long  ago.  I  looked 
in  turn  at  the  houses  and  at  the  people,  and  I  was  inclined  to  think 
that  I  had  been  acquainted  with  those  houses  in  their  better  days, 
when  they  wore  bran  new  paintings,  when  the  gilt  ornaments  on  their 
window  friezes  were  not  as  yet  so  black,  and  when  the  marble  Madonna 
bearing  the  child  on  her  arm,  still  had  her  beautiful  head,  which  those 
iconoclasts,  age,  and  wind  had  broken  away,  in  such  a  vulgar,  Jaco- 
binical manner.  The  faces  of  the  elderly  dames  seemed  familiar  to  me  as 
though  they  had  been  cut  from  the  old  Italian  pictures  I  had  seen  in 
the  Düsseldorf  Gallery  when  a  buy.  In  like  manner  the  old  men 
seemed  well  known  and  long  forgotten,  and  gazed  at  me  as  though 
from  the  depth  of  a  thousand  years.  Even  the  brisk  young  girls  had 
something  of  that  which  had  been  dead  a  thousand  years  in  their  faces, 
and  yet  of  revived  bloom,  so  that  almost  a  terror  stole  over  me,  a 
sweet,  gentle  terror  such  as  I  once  felt  when  in  the  lonely  midnight 
my  lips  pressed  those  of  Maria,  a  wondrous  lovely  lady,  whose  only 
fault  was  that  she  was  dead.  But  then  again  I  laughed  as  the  idea 
came  into  my  head  that  the  whole  town  was  nothing  but  a  pretty 
novel,  which  I  had  once  read — yes — which  I  myself  had  written,  and 
that  I  now  was  enchanted  by  my  own  work,  and  was  terrified  by 
sprites  of  my  own  raising.  "  Perhaps,  too,"  thought  I,  "  all  is  but  a 
dream,"  and  I  would  gladly  have  given  a  dollar  for  a  few  boxes  on  the 
ear,  just  to  learn  whether  I  was  asleep  or  awake. 

They  were  at  hand,  and  I  might  have  got  them  at  a  cheaper  rate, 
as  I  stumbled  over  an  old  fruit-woman.  She  contented  herself  with 
throwing  a  real  box  (of  figs)  at  my  ears,  and  I  thus  came  suddenly  to 
the  conviction  that  I  was,  in  the  most  actual  of  realities,  in  the  middle 
of  the  market-place  of  Trent,  near  the  great  fountain,  from  whose 
copper  Tritons  and  dolphins  the  silver  clear  waters  welled  out  pleas- 
ant and  reviving.  To  the  left  stood  an  old  palace,  whose  walls  were 
painted  with  many  coloured  allegorical  figures,  and  on  whose  terrace 
several  gray  Austrian  soldiers  were  being  drilled  into  heroism;  to 


—    264  — 


the  right  stood  a  gothic  Lombard,  capricious  looking  house,  from 
which  a  sweet,  fluttering  maiden's  voice  came  trilling  so  dashingly 
and  merrily,  that  the  widowed  old  walls  trembled  either  with  pleasure 
or  from  decay,  while  above  there  looked  from  the  arch  window  a  black 
labyrinthine-curled,  comedian-looking  wig,  under  which  projected  a 
sharply  cut  thin  face,  which  was  rouged,  but  only  on  the  left  cheek, 
and  which  consequently  looked  like  a  pancake  baked  only  on  one  side 
But  before  me,  in  the  midst,  stood  the  ancient  cathedral,  not  great, 
not  gloomy,  but  like  a  cheerful  old  man,  confiding  and  inviting  by 
his  age. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

As  I  drew  aside  the  green-silk  curtain  which  covered  the  entrance 
to  the  cathedral,  and  entered  the  house  of  the  Lord,  I  was  agreeably 
refreshed  in  body  and  soul,  by  the  pleasant  perfume  which  greeted 
me,  by  the  tranquillizing  magic  light  which  flowed  through  the  mam 
colored  windows  on  the  praying  assembly  within.  They  were  mosi 
women,  kneeling  in  long  rows  on  the  low  prayer-benches,  they  prayed 
only  with  a  light  movement  of  their  lips,  fanning  themselves  constantly 
meanwhile  with  great  green  fans,  so  that  nothing  could  be  heard  save 
an  incessant,  mysterious  whispering,  and  nothing  seen  but  moving 
fans  and  waving  veils.  The  creaking  tread  of  my  boots  disturbed 
many  a  fine  prayer,  and  great  catholic  eyes  stared  at  me  half  inquisi- 
tively, half  willingly,  as  if  they  would  fain  advise  me  to  kneel  and 
enjoy  with  them  a  siesta  of  the  soul. 

Truly  such  a  cathedral,  with  its  subdued  light,  and  its  coolness  is 
an  agreeable  resting-place,  when  we  have  out  of  doors  flaring  sun- 
shiue  and  oppressive  heat,  we  have  no  idea  of  this  in  our  Protestant 
North  Germany,  where  the  churches  are  not  built  so  comfortably, 
and  where  the  light  conies  shooting  so  saucily  through  the  uncolored. 
common-sense  window  panes,  which  do  not  protect  even  the  cold, 
harsh  sermon  from  the  heat.  People  may  say  what  they  will,  Catholi- 
cism is  a  good  religion — for  summer.  There  is  such  good  lyii 
round  on  the  benches  of  this  old  cathedral,  we  enjoy  on  them  such 
a  cool  piety,  such  a  holy  dolce  far  niente,  one  can  pray,  and  dream, 
and  sin  together  in  thought,  the  Madonnas  wink  so  forgivingly 
from  their  niches,  woman-like,  they  forgive  us  even  when  we  have 
entangled  their  lovely  features  in  the  sinful  current  of  our  wantoL 


—    265  — 


imaginations,  while,  as  a  superfluity  there  stands  in  every  corner  a 
brown,  pierced  chair  of  conscience,  where  we  can  ease  ourselves  of 
our  sins. 

In  such  a  chair  sat  a  young  monk  of  earnest  mien;  but  the  face  of 
the  lady  who  confessed  to  him  her  sins  was  concealed  from  me,  partly 
by  her  white  veil  and  partly  by  the  side  of  the  confessional,  yet  there 
came  to  view  a  hand,  which  at  once  held  me  fast.  I  could  not  help 
looking  at  it ;  its  blue  veins,  and  the  aristocratic  gleam  of  its  white 
fingers  were  so  strangely  familiar  to  me,  and  all  the  power  of  dreams 
in  my  soul  was  stirred  into  life  to  shape  a  face  to  match  this  hand.  It 
was  a  lovely  hand,  not  that  of  a  young  girl  who,  hajf  lamb  and  half 
rose,  has  only  thoughtless,  vegetable-animal  hands — this  hand  on  the 
contrary  had  something  spiritual  in  it,  something  exciting  past  associa- 
tions like  the  hands  of  handsome  human  beings  who  are  highly  refined 
and  accomplished,  or  who  have  greatly  suffered  ;  and  there  was  some- 
thing so  touchingly  innocent  in  this  hand,  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  had  no 
occasion  to  confess  with  the  rest  of  the  lady,  and  would  not  even  hear 
what  its  fair  proprietress  said,  and  therefore  waited  without,  till  she 
was  ready.  But  this  lasted  a  long  time,  the  lady  must  have  had  a 
terrible  amount  of  sin  to  narrate.  I  could  not  wait  any  longer,  my 
soul  pressed  an  invisible  parting-kiss  on  the  fair  hand  which  closed 
convulsively  at  the  same  instant,  and  that  in  the  same  peculiar 
manner  in  which  the  hand  of  the  dead  Maria  was  accustomed  to 
close  when  I  touched  it.  "  In  God's  name,"  thought  I,  "what  is  the 
dead  Maria  doing  in  Trent  ?"— and  I  hastened  from  the  Cathedral. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

When  I  again  crossed  the  market-place,  the  fruit-weman  of  whom 
1  have  spoken,  greeted  me  right  amiably  and  confidently,  as  though 
we  were  old  friends.  "It  is  all  one,"  thought  I,  "how  we  make 
an  acquaintance,  provided  that  it  be  but  made."  A  box  on  the  ear— 
or  a  box  hurled  at  it — is  not  in  faith  a  first  class  introduction  ;— but 
then  the  fruit-woman  and  I  looked  at  one  another  in  as#  friendly  a 
wise  as  though  we  had  just  mutually  handed  over  tip-top  letters, 
J  introducing,  &c,"  from  our  best  friends.  And  the  fruit-woman  was 
by  no  means  bad  to  look  at.  IS  he  was,  it  is  true,  already  in  that  age 
when  time  stamps  a  fatal  certificate  on  our  brow  of  the  active  service 
we  have  done  in  youth ;  but  ihis  had  made  her  all  the  more  cor- 

23 


—    266  — 


pulent,  and  what  she  had  lost  in  youth  she  had  won  in  weight.  "More- 
over  her  face  still  bore  the  traces  of  great  beauty,  and  there  was 
plainly  written  on  it,  as  on  old-fashioned  vases,  "  To  be  loved  and  as 
loving,  live,  is  the  best  joy  that  earth  can  give."  But  what  gave  her 
her  most  exquisite  charm,  was  the  style  in  which  her  hair  was  dressed 
— the  carefully  curled  wig-like  locks,  thickly  stiffened  with  pomatum 
and  idyllically  entwined  with  white  bell-flowers.  I  gazed  on  tins 
woman  with  the  same  rapt  attention  with  which  an  antiquary  would 
pore  over  a  newly  disinterred  torso — yes,  I  could  detect  far  more  on  this 
living  human  ruin — I  could  see  on  her,  traces  of  all  the  civilization  of 
Italy — the  Etruscan,  the  Roman,  the  Gothic,  the  Lombard,  down  to  our 
own  powdered  modern  age,  and  right  interesting  to  me  was  the  civilized 
manner  of  this  old  woman,  in  contrast  to  her  business  and  to  her 
passionate  habits.  Nor  was  I  less  interested  by  her  stock  in  trade — 
the  fresh  almonds  which  I  saw  for  the  first  time  in  their  green  original 
packages,  and  the  fresh  sweet-smelling  figs,  which  lay  piled  up  in 
heaps  as  common  as  pears  with  us.  I  was  also  delighted  with  the 
great  baskets  full  of  fresh  oranges  and  lemons,  and — delightful  sight ! — 
in  one  of  the  latter  lay  a  child,  beautiful  as  a  picture,  holding  a  little 
bell  in  his  hand,  and  as  the  great  bell  of  the  cathedral  began  to  sound, 
between  every  stroke,  the  boy  rang  his  little  bell,  and  smiled  so  for- 
getful of  all  worldly  things  up  into  the  blue  heaven,  that  the  drollest 
child's  fancies  came  into  my  own  head,  and  like  a  child  I  placed  my- 
self before  the  basket  and  began  to  eat  and  gossip  with  the  fruit- 
woman. 

From  my  broken  Italian  she  at  first  took  me  for  an  Englishman, 
but  I  confessed  that  I  was  only  a  German.  She  at  once  instituted 
a  series  of  geographical,  economic,  horticultural,  and  meteorological 
questions  as  to  Germany,  greatly  marvelling  when  I  confessed  to  her 
that  no  lemons  grew  in  our  country — that  we  were  obliged  to  squeeze 
very  tightly  the  few  which  "  went  in"  among  us  from  Italy,  and  that 
in  our  despair  we  were  obliged  to  make  up  our  want  of  juice  with  "  a 
little  more  rum."  "Ah,  my  dear  woman,"  said  I,  "in  our  land  it  is 
very  frosty  and  foggy — our  summer  is  only  a  green-washed  winter, 
even  the  sun  there  is  obliged  to  wear  a  flannel  jacket  to  keep 
from  catching  cold,  and  what  with  this  flannel  sunshine  our  fruits  get 
along  very  poorly — in  fact — between  you  and  I  and  the  bed  post — 
the  only  ripe  fruits  we  have  are  baked  apples.  As  for  figs,  they  come 
to  us  like  oranges  and  lemons  from  distant  lands,  and  by  the  time 
they  arrive  no  one  would  give  a  fig  for  them  ;  only  the  worst  of  them 
ever  reach  us  fresh,  and  these  are  so  very  bad  that  any  one  who  is 


—    267  — 

induced  to  take  them  for  nothing  always  brings  an  action  for  damages 
against  the  giver.  As  for  almonds*  we  have  only  the  inflamed  and 
swollen  sort.  In  short  we  are  wanting  in  all  the  nobler  fruits,  and 
have  nothing  but  gooseberries,  pears,  hazel-nuts,  and  similar  canaille. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

I  was  really  delighted  to  have  made  a  good  acquaintance  so  soon 
after  arriving  in  Italy,  and  had  not  deeper  feelings  drawn  me  to  -the 
South,  I  should  have  remained  in  Trent  by  the  good  fruit-woman,  by 
the  good  figs  and  almonds,  by  the  little  bell-ringer,  and  to  tell  the  truth, 
by  the  beautiful  girls,  who  streamed  by  in  hordes.  I  do  not  know  if 
other  travellers  would  here  admit  the  use  of  the  word  "  beautiful," 
but  the  Trent  females  pleased  me  most  unexceptionably.  They  were 
just  the  sort  which  I  love ; — and  I  love  those  pale  elegiac  faces 
from  which  great  black  eyes  gaze  forth  in  love-sickness ;  I  love  the 
dark  hue  of  those  proud  necks  which  Phoebus  too  has  loved  and 
kissed  brown ;  I  love  those  over-ripe  necks  with  purple  dots  in  them, 
which  seem  as  if  wanton  birds  had  been  picking  at  them ;  but 
above  all  I  love  that  genial  warm-blooded  gait,  that  silent  music  of 
the  whole  body,  those  limbs  which  undulate  in  the  sweetest  measures, 
voluptuous,  pliant,  divinely  lewd,  dying  in  breathless  idleness — and 
then  once  more  etherially  sublime  and  ever  highly  poetical.  I  love 
such  women  as  I  love  Poetry  itself,  and  these  melodiously  moving 
forms,  this  human  orchestra  as  it  rustled  musically  past  me  found 
echo  in  my  heart,  and  awoke  in  it  its  sympathetic  tones. 

It  was  now  no  longer  the  magic  power  of  a  first  surprise,  the 
legend-like  mystery  of  some  wild  and  wondrous  apparition — it  had 
become  that  tranquil  spirit  which  studied  those  female  forms  as  they 
passed  along,  just  as  a  true  critic  reads  a  poem.  And  by  observing 
in  this  wise,  we  discover  much — much  that  is  sad  and  strange,  the 
wealth  of  the  past,  the  poverty  of  the  present,  and  the  great  pride 
which  still  remains.  Gladly  would  the  daughters  of  Trent  bedeck 
themselves  in  silk  and  in  satin  as  in  the  days  of  the  Council,  when  their 
city  bloomed  in  velvets  and  satin — but  the  Council  did  nothing  for 
them  ;  the  velvet  is  shabby,  the  satin  in  rags,  and  nothing  remains 


*The  word  almond  is  applied  in  German  as  in  English,  not  only  to  the  fruit  of  that 
name,  but  to  the  tonsils. 


—   268  — 


to  the  poor  children  save  an  empty  tawdry  show,  which  they  carefully 
preserve  during  the  week,  and  with  which  they  attire  themselves 
only  on  Sunday.  But  many  have  not  even  these  remains  of  bygone, 
luxury,  and  must  get  along  as  they  best  can  with  the  plain  and 
cheaper  manufactures  of  the  present  day.  Therefore  there  is  many  a 
touching  contrast  between  body  and  garment,  the  exquisitely  carved 
mouth  seems  formed  to  command,  and  is  itself  scornfully  over- 
shadowed by  a  wretched  hat  with  crumpled  paper  flowers,  the 
proudest  breasts  heave  and  palpitate  in  a  frizzle  of  coarse  woolen 
imitation  lace,  and  the  most  spiritual  hips  are  embraced  by  the 
stupidest  cotton.  Sorrow,  thy  name  is  cotton — and  brown-^trirod 
,  cotton  at  that !  For,  alas,  nothing  produced  in  me  such  sorrowful 
feelings  as  the  sight  of  a  fair  Trent  girl,  who  in  form  and  complexion 
resembled  a  marble  goddess,  and  who  wore  on  this  antique  noble 
form  a  garment  of  brown-striped  cotton,  so  that  it  seemed  as  though 
the  petrified  Niobe  had  suddenly  become  merry,  and  had  disguised 
herself  in  our  modern  small-souled  garb,  and  now  swept  in  beggarly 
pride  and  superbly  helpless  through  the  streets  of  Trent. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

When  I  returned  to  the  Locanda  delV  Grande  Europa,  where  I  had 
ordered  a  good  pranzo,  I  was  really  so  dispirited  that  I  could  not 
eat,  and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal  for  me.  I  sat  down  before  the 
door  of  the  neighboring  Bottega,  refreshed  myself  with  sherbet,  and 
spoke  thus — 

"  Whimsical,  blue-devilled  heart !  now  thou  art  in  Italy — why  art 
thou  not  tiri-liring  ?  Have  perhaps  the  little  serpents  which  twined 
so  closely  within,  come  with  thee  to  Italy,  and  do  they  now  rejoice, 
and  does  their  common  rejoicing  awaken  in  thy  bosom  that  picturesque 
sorrow  which  so  strangely  stings,  and  dances,  and  pipes,  as  in  the  olden 
time?  And  why  should  not  the  old  sorrows  also  rejoice  in  their 
turn  ?  Here  in  Italy  all  is  so  beautiful,  in  these  ruined  marble 
palaces,  sighs  re-echo  far  more  romantically  than  in  our  neatly  tiled 
little  houses ;  we  can  weep  far  more  voluptuously  beneath  those 
laurels  than  under  our  ill-natured  angular  fir-trees,  and  is  it  not  far 
sweeter  to  yearn  and  long  away  our  souls  deep  into  the  ideal  cloudy 
forms  of  the  heavenly  blue  of  Italy,  than  into  the  ashy  grey  of  a 
German  week-day  heaven,  where  even  the  clouds  only  cut  honest, 


—   269  — 


common,  citizen  grimaces,  and  stupidly  gape  down.  Eemain  in  my 
breast  ye  sorrows  !  Ye  will  not  find  after  all  a  better  lodging  place. 
Ye  are  dear,  and  worth  keeping,  and  nobody  knows  how  to  take 
better  care  of  you  than  I,  and  I  confess  that  ye  are  a  great  pleasure. 
And  after  all,  what  is  pleasure  ?  At  best  an  intensely  exquisite, 
convulsive  pain  ! 

I  believe  that  the  music  which  without  exciting  my  attention  rang 
before  the  Bottega  and  attracted  a  crowd  of  listeners,  had  melo- 
dramatically accompanied  this  monologue*  It  was  a  singular  trio, 
consisting  of  two  men,  and  a  young  harp-girl.  One  of  the  men,  clad 
as  if  for  winter  in  a  white  overcoat,  was  a  powerful  figure,  with  a 
full  red,  bandit  face,  which  blazed  out  from  among  the  black  hair  of 
his  head  and  beard,  like  a  threatening  comet.  He  held  between  his 
legs  a  monstrous  bass-viol,  on  which  he  sawed  away  as  furiously  as 
though  he  had,  in  the  Abruzzi,  conquered  some  poor  traveller,  and 
was  desperately  cutting  his  throat.  The  other  was  a  tall,  meagre 
old  man,  whose  lean  limbs  tottered  in  a  worn-out  black  dress,  and 
whose  snow-white  hair  contrasted  sorrowfully  with  his  buffo  song 
and  his  crazy  caperings.  It  is  sad  enough  when  an  old  man  must, 
from  poverty,  lay  aside  the  dignity  of  age  and  give  himself  up  to 
pranks  and  tricks  ;  but  how  much  sadder  is  it  when  he  must  do  this 
before  his  own  child ! — and  that  girl  was  the  daughter  of  the  old 
buffo,  and  she  accompanied  on  the  harp  his  low  jests,  or  laying  it 
aside,  sang  with  him  a  comic  duett  in  which  he  played  the  enamoured 
old  man,  and  she  the  mocking  young  amante.  Moreover,  the  girl 
appeared  to  have  hardly  entered  her  teens — yes,  it  seemed  as  though 
they  had  rudely  made  a  woman  of  her  ere  she  had  come  to  maiden- 
hood— and  not  a  virtuous  woman  at  that.  Hence  came  that  green- 
sickly  withering,  and  that  shrinking  displeasure  of  the  fair  face, 
whose  proudly  thrown  traits  seemed  to  scorn  all  pity ;  hence  that 
secret  vexedness  of  the  eyes  which  gleamed  defiantly  under  their 
black  triumphal  arches ;  hence  the  deep  tone  of  sorrow  which  con- 
trasted so  unnaturally  with  the  fair  and  laughing  lips  which  it 
escaped ;  hence  the  sickliness  of  the  all  too  delicate  limbs,  which  a 
short  and  painfully  violet  blue  silk  fluttered  around,  so  far  as  possible. 
Many  colored  and  violently  contrasted  satin  ribbons  waved  like  flags 
around  her  old  straw  hat,  and  her  breast  was  symbolically  ornamented 
by  a  just  opening  rose-bud,  which  seemed  rather  to  have  been  pulled 
open  than  to  have  naturally  unfolded  itself  from  among  its  fresh 
verdant  moss.  Meanwhile  there  was  perceptible  in  the  poor  girl — 
in  this  spring  over  which  death  had  already  breathed — an  indes- 

23* 


—   270  — 


cribable  charm,  a  grace  which  expressed  itself  in  every  glance  and 
motion  and  tone,  and  which  did  not  disappear  even  when  with  her 
body  thrown  forwards,  she '  danced  with  mocking  lasciviousness 
towards  the  old  man,  who,  quite  as  immodestly,  tottered  towards 
her  in  the  same  attitude.  The  more  shamelessly  she  acted,  the 
deeper  was  the  pity  she  awoke  in  my  bosom,  and  when  her  song 
welled  forth  sweet  and  wondrous  from  her  breast,  as  if  imploring 
forgiveness — oh,  then  the  little  serpents  leaped  up  in  ecstasy  within 
me,  and  bit  into  their  own  flesh  for  joy.  Even  the  rose  seemed  to 
gaze  imploringly  on  me — yes,  once  I  saw  it  even  tremble  and  grow 
pale,  but  at  that  instant  the  trills  of  the  girl's  voice  rose  so  much 
more  merrily  on  high,  the  old  man  bleated,  goat-like,  so  much  more 
passionately,  and  the  red  comet-face  martyred  his  bass-viol  so  much 
more  savagely,  that  there  came  forth  the  most  terrifically  funny  tones, 
and  the  audience  rejoiced  more  madly  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

It  was  a  real  Italian  composition,  from  some  favorite  comic  opera, 
of  that  strange  sort  which  gives  the  fullest  scope  to  Humor,  and  in 
which  the  latter  can  abandon  himself  to  all  his  mad  joy,  his  crazy 
feelings,  his  laughing  sorrow,  and  his  life-longing  death  inspiration. 
It  was  altogether  in  the  manner  of  Rossini,  as  displayed  in  the 
Barber  of  Seville.  The  scorncrs  of  the  Italian  sehool,  who  would  fain 
destroy  the  character  of  this  sort  of  music,  will  not  escape  their  well- 
deserved  punishment  in  hell,  and  are  perhaps  damned  in  advance  to 
hear  through  all  eternity  nothing  but  the  fugues  of  Sebastian  Bach. 
It  grieves  me  to  think  that  so  many  of  my  friends  will  not  escape 
this  punishment,  and  that  among  them  is  Rellstab,  who  will  be 
damned  with  the  rest,  unless  before  his  death  he  is  converted  to  the 
true  faith  of  Rossini.  Rossini  !  divino  Maestro  !  Helios  of  Italy, 
who  spreadest  forth  thy  rays  over  the  world,  pardon  my  poor  coun- 
trymen who  slander  thee  on  writing  and  on  printing  paper  !  I  how- 
ever rejoice  in  thy  golden  tones,  in  thy  melodious  rays,  in  thy  gleam- 
ing butterfly  dreams  which  so  merrily  played  around  me  and  kissed 
my  heart  as  with  the  lips  of  the  graces.  Divino  Maestro — forgive 
my  poor  countrymen  who  do  not  see  into  thy  depth,  because  thou 
coverest  it  with  roses,  and  to  whom  thou  dost  not  seem  sufficiently 
profound,  because  thou  soarest  so  lightly  as  on  divine  wings  !  It 
is  true,  that  to  love  the  Italian  music  of  the  present  day,  and  to 


—    271  — 


arrive  through  love  at  its  comprehension,  one  should  have  the  people 
themselves  before  his  eyes — their  heaven,  their  character,  their 
glances,  their  joys,  their  sorrows;  in  short,  their  entire  history  from 
Romulus,  who  founded  the  holy  Roman  realm,  until  that  later  time 
when  it  perished  under  Romulus  Augustulus  II.  Even  the  use  of 
speech  is  forbidden  to  poor  enslaved  Italy,  and  she  can  only  express 
by  music  the  feelings  of  her  heart.  All  her  resentment  against 
foreign  dominion,  her  inspiration  of  liberty,  her  rage  at  the  conscious- 
ness of  weakness,  her  sorrow  at  the  memories  of  past  greatness, 
her  faint  hopes,  her  watching  and  waiting  in  silence,  her  yearning  for 
aid : — all  is  masked  in  those  melodies  which  glide  from  an  intense 
intoxication  of  animal  life  into  elegiac  weakness,  and  in  those  panto- 
mimes which  dart  from  flattering  caresses  into  threatening  rage. 

This  is  the  esoteric  sense  of  the  comic  opera.  The  exoteric  sen- 
tinel, in  whose  presence  they  are  sung  and  acted,  does  not  surmise 
the  inner  meaning  of  those  jovial  love-stories,  love-longings  and  love- 
mockeries,  beneath  which  the  Italian  hides  his  deadliest  thoughts  of 
freedom,  as  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton  hid  their  daggers  in 
wreaths  of  laurel.  "  It  is  all  nonsensical  stuff,"  says  the  exoteric 
sentinel,  and  it  is  well  that  he  sees  it  not.  For  if  he  did,  then  the 
impresario  with  his  prima  donna  and  primo  reorno,  would  soon  be 
compelled  to  walk  those  planks  which  now  set  forth  a  festival,  a 
commission  of  inquiry  would  soon  be  instituted,  all  treasonable  trills 
and  revolutionary  roulades  would  be  protocolled ;  they  would  arrest 
innumerable  Harlequins  who  are  involved  in  extensive  ramifications 
of  horrible  plots,  even  Tartaglia,  Brighella,  and  the  suspicious  old 
Pantaloon  would  be  locked  up,  the  papers  of  the  Doitore  of  Bologna 
would  be  put  under  seal,  and  under  all  these  family  troubles  Colum- 
bine would  weep  her  eyes  red.  But  I  myself  think  that  there  is 
little  danger  of  this  coming  to  pass,  for  the  Italian  demagogues  are 
far  shrewder  than  our  poor  Germans,  who  with  a  similar  intention 
have  also  disguised  themselves  like  black  fools  with  black  foolscaps, 
but  who  appeared  so  disagreeably  melancholy,  and  seemed  so  dan- 
gerous by  their  deep  earnest  clown-leaping,  which  they  call  "  turning," 
and  made  up  such  serious  faces,  that  they  finally  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  government  and  got  themselves  into  prison. 


I' 


—   272  — 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  little  harp-girl  must  have  remarked  that  I,  while  she  sang  and 
played,  often  looked  at  the  rose  on  her  bosom,  and  when  I  laid  on 
the  plate,  when  it  went  round,  a  piece  of  money  which  was  not  alto- 
gether too  small,  she  slily  laughed  and  mysteriously  asked  in  a 
whisper,  "  if  I  would  like  to  have  her  rose?" 

Now  I  am  the  politest  man  in  the  world,  and  would  not  for  all  the 
world  slander  a  rose,  even  though  it  be  a  rose  which  has  already 
wasted  some  of  its  perfume!  "And  if,"  thought  I,  "it  no  longer 
smells  perfectly  fresh,  and  no  longer  breathes  the  odor  of  sanctity 
and  virtue,  like  the  Rose  of  Sharon,  what  is  that  to  me  who  have 
such  a  devil  of  a  cold  in  my  head  ?  And  it  is  only  mankind  who  are 
so  particular  in  these  little  matters.  The  butterfly  asks  not  of  the 
rose,  "  Hath  another  already  kissed  thee  ?"  Nor  does  the  rose 
inquire,  "  Hast  thou  ere  this  fluttered  around  another?"  And  it 
happened  about  this  time  that  night  came  stealing  on,  "  and  by  night," 
thought  I,  "  all  flowers  are  black — the  sinfullest  rose  quite  as  much  so 
as  the  most  virtuous  parsley."  Well,  and  good — without  hesitation 
I  said  to  the  little  harp-girl :  "  Si,  Signora,       *      *      *  " 

Gentle  reader — form  no  evil  fancies.  It  had  grown  dark  and  the 
stars  shone  clear  and  holily  into  my  heart,  while  in  the  heart  itself 
trembled  the  memory  of  the  dead  Maria.  I  recalled  that  night 
when  I  stood  before  the  bed  whereon  lay  the  beautiful  pale  corpse 
with  soft,  silent  lips.  I  thought  again  on  the  strange  glance  which 
the  old  dame,  who  was  to  watch  the  body,  cast  on  me,  when  for  some 
hours  I  was  to  relieve  her  of  the  task.  I  thought  again  of  the  night- 
violet*  which  stood  in  a  glass  on  the  table,  and  which  smelt  so  strangely. 
A  nd  a  suspicion  shuddered  through  my  veins,  as  to  whether  it  were 
really  a  draught  of  air  which  extinguished  the  lamp?  Or  was  there 
really  no  third  person  in  the  chamber  ? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

I  went  early  to  bed,  and  quickly  fell  to  sleep,  losing  myself  in  the 
wildest  dreams.  I  dreamed  myself  a  few  hours  back,  I  came  again 
into  Trent,  I  was  again  in  amazement  as  before,  and  all  the  more  so,- 


*  Nfflchviole — Night-smelling  rocket. 

22 


J 


—   273  — 


because  I  saw  nothing  but  flowers  instead  of  human  beings  walking 
in  the  streets. 

There  were  wandering  glowing  pinks,  who  voluptuously  fanned 
themselves,  coquettish  balsamines,  hyacinths,  with  pretty  empty  bell 
heads,  and  behind  them  a  party  of  mustachioed  narcissuses  and  disor- 
derly larkspurs.  At  one  corner  two  loose-strifes*  were  quarrelling 
and  scolding.  From  the  windows  of  a  sickly-looking  old  house,  peered 
a  spotted  stock-gilliflower,  decked  off  in  ridiculous  wise,  while  from 
within  pealed  a  delicately  perfumed  violet  voice.  On  the  balcony  of 
the  great  palazzo  in  the  market-place,  all  the  nobility  were  assembled, 
all  the  high  noblesse,  viz. :  the  lilies,  who  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin, 
although  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  them. 
I  even  thought  that  I  saw  the  plump  fruit- wife,  though  when  I  looked 
more  closely,  it  was  indeed  the  fruit-wife  no  longer,  but  a  wintry 
sass-afras,  who  at  once  burst  out  on  me  with — ■"  What  d'ye  want, 
you  green-top  ?  You  pickled  cowcumber  !  You're  a  blossom  now, 
arn't  ye  !  Wait  till  I  water  you  !"  In  terror  I  ran  into  the  cathe- 
dral, and  almost  ran  over  an  old  lame  mother-wort,  whose  prayer 
book  was  carried  for  her  by  a  little  coxcomb.  But  in  the  cathedral 
all  was  right  pleasant — there  in  long  rows  were  the  tulips,  piously 
nodding  their  heads.  In  the  confessional  sat  a  dark  monk's  hood, 
and  before  him  kneeled  a  flower,  whose  face  was  not  visible.  But  it 
breathed  forth  a  perfume  so  strangely  familiar,  that  I  shuddered  as  I 
thought  of  the  night-violet,  which  stood  in  the  chamber  where  the 
dead  Maria  lay. 

As  I  again  left  the  cathedral,  I  met  a  funeral  procession  of  nothing 
but  roses  with  black  "  weeds,"  and  white  handkerchiefs,  and,  ah  !• — 
on  the  bier  lay  the  early  plucked  rose  with  which  I  had  become 
acquainted  on  the  bosom  of  the  little  harp-maiden.  She  now  looked 
far  gentler,  but  all  snow-white — a  white-rose  corpse.  They  set  down 
the  coffin  in  a  little  chapel ;  where  there  was  nothing  but  weeping 
and  sighing,  and  finally  an  old  hell'e'bore,  got  up  and  delivered  a  long 
funeral  sermon,  in  which  he  said  much  of  the  virtues  of  the  departed, 
of  this  earthly  vale  of  tears  which  availeth  naught,  of  a  better  being, 
of  Love,  Hope,  and  Faith,  all  in  a  nasal  singing  tone,  a  well  watered 
oration,  and  so  long  and  long  winded,  that  I  at  last  awoke. 


*  Loose  strife — hjsimacMa  stricla.  In  the  original  Heine,  makes  these  quarrelling 
flowers  to  be  Masliebchen — which  means  maple-daisy,  or  marsh-marigold. 


—   274  — 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

My  vettnrino  had  harnessed  his  horses  in  advance  of  Phoebus,  and 
we  reached  Ala  before  dinner  time.  Here  the  vettarine  are  accustomed 
to  stop  a  few  hours  and  change  horses. 

Ala  is  a  real  Italian  nest  of  a  place.  It  is  picturesquely  situated 
on  the  slope  of  a  mountain,  a  river  ripples  past  it,  and  pleasant  green 
vines  flourish  here  and  there,  amid  the  stuck-together  beggar  palaces, 
which  hang  one  over  the  other.  On  a  corner  of  the  warped  market- 
house,  no  bigger  than  a  hen-coop,  is  inscribed  in  great  imposing 
letters  :  Piazza  di  San  Marco.  On  the  stone  fragment  of  a  massive 
coat  of  arms  of  an  ancient,  noble  family,  sat  a  little  boy,  manifesting 
in  his  need,  any  thing  but  respect  for  the  relic.  The  clear  sunlight 
shone  on  his  naive  nudity,  and  he  held  in  his  hand  a  picture  of  a  saint, 
which  he  devoutly  kissed.  A  little  girl — beautiful  as  a  statue,  stood 
by  in  rapt  attention,  blowing  at  times  an  accompaniment  on  a  penny 
trumpet. 

The  tavern  where  I  dined  was  thoroughly  Italian.  Above  on  the 
first  story  was  a  full  gallery  looking  towards  the  court-yard,  in  which 
lay  broken  wagons  and  yearning  piles  of  manure,  and  wherein  were 
turkeys  with  ridiculous  red  wattles,  and  beggarly  proud  peacocks, 
besides  half  a  dozen  ragged  sun-burnt  children,  who  were  aiding  in 
the  mutual  improvement  of  their  capillary  attractions  after  the  Bell 
and  Lancasterian  methods.  By  means  of  this  balcony,  I  passed  by 
the  broken  iron  balustrade  into  a  broad,  echoing  chamber.  The 
floor  was  of  marble,  in  the  midst  stood  a  great  bed  on  which  fleas 
were  consummating  their  nuptials,  while  on  every  side  was  all  the 
magnificence  of  dirt.  The  host  leaped  here  and  there  to  fulfil  my 
commands.  He  wore  a  violently  green  frock  coat,  and  a  manifoldly 
moving  countenance  in  which  was  a  humpbacked  nose,  on  the  centre 
of  which  sat  a  red  wart,  which  reminded  me  of  a  red-coated  monkey 
on  a  camel's  back.  He  sprang  hither  and  thither,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  as  though  the  red  monkey  were  leaping  about  in  like  manner.  He 
was  an  hour  in  bringing  any  thing,  and  when  I  rated  him  soundly  for 
it,  he  assured  me  on  his  word  that  I  spoke  Italian  admirably. 

I  was  obliged  to  content  myself  for  a  long  time  with  the  agreeable 
perfume  of  roast  meat,  which  was  wafted  towards  me  from  the  doorless 
kitchen  just  opposite,  in  which  the  mother  and  daughter  sat  side  by 
side,  singing  and  plucking  chickens.  The  first  was  remarkably  cor- 
pulent, with  breasts  which  sprang  boldly  outward  and  yet  were  still 


—    275  — 


diminutive  as  compared  to  the  colossal  antitype,  so  that  the  one 
reminded  me  of  the  "  Institutes"  of  the  Roman  Law,  while  the  other 
seemed  their  enlargement  in  the  Pandects.  The  daughter,  a  by  no 
means  very  large,  but  still  stoutly  built  person,  was  also  inclined  to 
corpulency,  but  her  rosy  fatness  was  by  no  means  to  be  compared  to  the 
ancient  tallow  of  the  mother.  Her  features  were  not  soft,  not  enchant- 
ing with  the  charms  of  youth,  but  still  beautifully  cut,  noble  and 
antique ;  the  eyes  and  hair  of  brilliant  black.  The  mother  on  the 
contrary  had  flat,  stumpy  features,  a  rosy-red  nose,  blue  eyes  which 
looked  like  violets  boiled  in  milk  and  lily-white  powdered  hair.  Now 
and  then  il  Signor  padre  came  leaping  in  and  asked  for  this  or  that 
dish  or  implement,  when  he  was  advised  in  calm  recitative  to  look  for 
it  himself.  Then  he  smacked  with  his  tongue,  hunted  in  the  drawer, 
tasted  from  the  boiling  pot,  burned  his  mouth,  and  hopped  again  out, 
and  with  him  his  camel  nose  and  the  red  monkey  on  it.  And  behind 
him  rang  forth  merry  trills,  like  pleasant  mockery  and  family  joking. 

But  a  thunder  stroke  suddenly  interrupted  this  agreeable  and 
almost  idyllic  family  scene,  as  a  square  built  fellow  with  a  lowering 
murderous  face  leaped  in,  and  screamed  something  that  I  did  not 
understand.  As  both  the  women  made  emphatic  gestures  of  denial, 
he  became  insane  with  rage,  spitting  fire  and  flame  like  an  ill-natured 
young  Vesuvius.  The  landlady  seemed  to  be  in  trouble,  and  whis- 
pered assuaging  words,  which  had  however  a  contrary  effect,  so  that 
the  raging  wretch  seized  an  iron  shovel,  smashed  divers  unfortunate 
plates  and  bottles,  and  would  have  struck  down  the  unfortunate 
woman,  had  not  the  daughter  grasped  a  long  kitchen  knife  and 
threatened  to  run  him  through,  unless  he  at  once  vanished. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight — that  of  the  girl  standing  there  sallow  and 
pale,  and  petrified  with  rage,  like  a  marble  statue,  her  very  lips  pale, 
the  eyes  deep  and  death-like,  a  blue  swollen  vein  crossing  her  brow, 
the  black  locks  twining  around  it  like  snakes,  a  bloody  knife  in  her 
hand, — I  trembled  with  delight,  for  I  fancied  that  I  saw  before  me 
the  image  of  Medea,  as  I  have  often  dreamed  her  in  my  youthful 
nights  when  I  have  fallen  to  sleep  on  the  dear  bosom  of  Melpomene, 
the  darkly  beautiful  goddess. 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  the  Signor  padre  never  once  ran  off 
his  track,  but  with  habitual  busy  calmness  picked  up  the  shards 
from  the  soil,  collected  the  plates  which  yet  remained  alive,  and 
brought  me  first,  soup  with  Parmesan  cheese,  roast  meat,  hard  and 
solid  as  German  honesty,  crabs  red  as  love,  spinach  green  as  hope, 
with  eggs  ;  and  for  dessert,  onions  which  brought  tears  of  emotion  to 


—    276  — 


my  eyes.  "It's  nothing — it's  only  Pietro's  way,"  said  he,  as  I  glanced 
in  wonder  towards  the  kitchen,  and  in  fact  after  the  great  cause  of 
all  the  difficulty  had  made  himself  scarce,  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  had 
happened ;  mother  and  daughter  singing  calmly  as  before,  as  they 
sat  and  plucked  chickens. 

The  bill  convinced  me  that  the  Signor  padre  also  understood  the 
sublime  art  of  "plucking,"  and  when  I  in  addition  to  his  demand 
also  gave  him  a  buono  mano,  he  bowed  in  such  estatic  delight  that  the 
red  monkey  nearly  fell  from  its  seat.  Then  I  nodded  in  a  friendly 
manner  into  the  kitchen,  received  as  friendly  a  salute  in  return, 
quickly  jumped  into  the  coach,  drove  rapidly  along  the  plains  of 
Lombardy,  find  arrived  about  evening  in  the  ancient,  world-renowned 
town  Verona. 

s   

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  varied  power  of  new  appearances  moved  me  only  dimly  and 
forebodingly  in  Trent,  like  the  tremor  of  a  legend ;  but,  in  Verona, 
I  was  seized  by  a  mighty  feverish  dream  full  of  hot  colors,  accurately 
designed  forms,  ghostly  trumpet  clang,  and  the  far  away  roar  of 
weapons.  Many  a  dark  old  palace  stared  on  me  as  though  it  would 
confide  to  me  some  ancient  secret,  and  withheld  it  only  on  account 
of  the  officious  crowd  of  every-day  mortals,  begging  me  to  come 
again  by  night.  Yet,  despite  the  tumult  of  the  throng  and  the  wild 
sun  which  cast  over  me  its  red  light,  here  and  there  some  dark  old 
tower  whispered  to  me  some  deeply  significant  word;  here  and  there 
I  overheard  the  murmurings  of  broken  columns,  and  as  I  passed 
along  a  small  flight  of  steps  which  led  to  the  Piazza  de  Siynori, 
the  stones  narrated  to  me  a  fearfully  bloody  story,  and  I  read  on  the 
corner  the  words — Scala  mazzanti. 

Verona,  the  ancient  world-renowned  city,  situated  on  both  sides 
of  the  Adige,  has  been  in  all  ages  the  first  halting  place  for  the 
great  German  emigrations  of  tribes  who  left  their  cold  Northern 
forests  and  crossed  the  Alps,  to  rejoice  in  the  golden  sunshine  of 
pleasant  Italy.  Some  went  further  on — others  were  well  enough 
pleased  with  the  place  itself,  and  made  themselves  at  home  and  com- 
fortable in  it,  and  put  on  their  silk  dressing--gowns  and  promenaded 
cheerfully  among  flowers  and  cypresses,  until  new  comers,  who  still 
bad  on  their  iron  garments,  arrived  from  the  North  and  crowded 


—   277  — 


them  away — an  oft-repeated  tale,  and  one  called  by  historians  the 
emigration  of  races.  If  we  wander  through  the  district  of  Verona, 
we  find  startling  traces  of  those  days,  as  well  as  relics  of  an  earlier 
and  of  a  later  age.  The  amphitheatre  and  the  triumphal  arch 
reminds  us  of  the  Roman  age,  the  fabulous  relics  of  so  many  Roman- 
esque ante-gothic  buildings,  recall  Theodoric,  that  Dietrich  of  Bern, 
of  whom  Germans  yet  sing  and  tell ;  mad  fragmonts  bring  up  Alboin 
and  his  raging  Longobardi ;  legendary  monuments  speak  of  Carolus 
Magnus,  whose  paladins  are  chiselled  on  the  gate  of  the  Cathedral 
with  the  same  frank  roughness  which  characterized  them  in  life ;  it 
all  seems  as  though  the  town  were  a  great  tavern,  and  as  peopl  •>  in 
inns  are  accustomed  to  write  their  names  on  walls  and  windows,  so 
have  the  races  who  have  travelled  through  Verona  left  in  it  traces 
of  their  presence  ;  frequently,  it  is  true,  not  in  the  most  legible  hand, 
since  many  a  German  tribe  had  not  then  learned  to  write,  and  was 
obliged  to  smash  something  by  way  of  leaving  its  mark,  which  was 
also  very  wrell  in  its  way,  as  these  ruins  which  they  made  speak  more 
intelligibly  than  the  most  elaborate  writing.  And  the  barbarians 
who  now  dwell  in  the  old  hostelrie  will  not  fail  to  leave  similar  tokens 
of  their  presence,  having  neither  poets  or  sculptors  to  hand  down 
their  memory  to  posterity. 

I  remained  but  one  day  in  Verona,  constantly  marvelling  at  novel- 
ties, gazing  at  one  time  on  the  ancient  buildings,  at  another  on  the 
human  beings  who  thronged  past  in  mysterious  haste,  and  finally  at 
the  divinely  blue  heaven  which  limited  the  whole  strange  scene  like  a 
costly  frame,  and  seemed  to  make  of  it  a  painting.  But  it  is  right  queer 
when  a  man  sticks  himself  into  a  picture  which  he  has  just  been 
looking  at,  and  is  occasionally  laughed  at  by  his  fellow  figures,  and 
by  the  female  ones  at  that,  as  happened  to  me  very  pleasantly  in 
the  Piazza  delle  Erbe.  This  place  is  the  vegetable  market,  and  there 
I  found  abundance  of  delightful  forms,  women  and  girls,  longing,  great- 
eyed  faces,  bodies  in  which  one  could  dwell  very  comfortably,  excit- 
ingly brunette-colored,  naively  dirty  beauties,  much  better  adapted  to 
night  than  to  day.  The  white  or  black  veils  which  the  city  women 
wear,  were  so  cunningly  entwined  around  their  breasts  that  they 
displayed  more  of  the  beautiful  forms  than  they  concealed.  The 
girls  wore  their  hair  in  chignons,  pierced  with  one  or  more  golden 
arrows  or  silver  rods  terminated  by  an  acorn.  The  peasant  women 
generally  wore  small  straw  hats  shaped  like  plates,  with  coquettish 
flowers  on  one  side  of  the  head.    The  dress  of  the  men  differed  less 

24 


—   278  — 


from  that  of  our  own,  and  only  the  immense  black  beard  which 
came  like  bushes  over  their  cravats  was  to  me  a  little  startling. 

If  we  study  these  people  more  attentively,  the  men  as  well  as  the 
women,  we  find  in  their  features  as  well  as  in  their  whole  being  the 
traces  of  a  civilization  which  differs  from  our  own  in  this,  that  it  is 
evidently  derived  from  the  Koman  times,  and  has  only  modified  itself 
according  to  the  character  of  the  casual  rulers  of  the  land.  Civiliza- 
tion has  with  them  no  new  and  startling  features  as  among  us,  where  the 
oaken  trunk  was  first  sawn,  as  it  were,  but  yesterday,  and  where  every 
thing  smells  of  varnish.  It  seems  as  though  this  race  in  the  Piazza 
'(idle  Erbe,  has  during  the  course  of  time  only  changed  clothes  and 
language,  while  the  spirit  of  their  customs  has  undergone  but  little 
modification.  The  buildings  which  surround  the  place  do  not  appear 
to  have  adapted  themselves  so  well  to  the  change  of  circumstances, 
but  they  do  not  look  on  us  the  less  pleasantly,  and  their  glance 
strangely  moves  the  soul.  There  stand  the  high  old  palaces  in 
Venetian-Lombard  style,  with  countless  balconies  and  smiling  fres- 
coes ;  in  the  midst  rises  a  single  monumental  column,  a  fountain  and 
the  stone  image  of  a  saint ;  here  we  see  a  whimsical  white  and  red 
striped  Podest^,  who  rises  behind  a  vast  pillar  gate — there  we  behold 
an  old  four-corner  church  tower,  on  which  the  hand  of  the  clock  is 
broken,  and  its  figures  half  obliterated,  so  that  even  time  seems  des- 
troying itself — and  over  all  rests  that  romantic  enchantment  which 
breathes  so  pleasantly  over  us  from  the  fantastic  poems  of  Ludovico 
Ariosto,  or  of  Ludovico  Tieck. 

Near  this  place  is  a  house,  which,  on  account  of  a  hat  which  is 
chiselled  in  stone  over  the  inner  door,  is  supposed  to  be  the  palace  of 
the  Capulets.  It  is  now  a  dirty  inn  for  wagoners  and  coachmen,  and 
has  for  a  sign,  a  red-painted  leaden  hat,  full  of  holes.  Not  far  off,  in 
a  church,  they  show  the  chapel  in  which,  according  to  the  legend,  the 
unfortunate  lovers  were  married.  A  poet  gladly  visits  such  places, 
even  when  he  himself  laughs  at  the  easy  superstition  of  his  heart. 
I  found  in  this  chapel  a  solitary  woman — a  care-worn,  faded  being — 
who,  after  long  kneeling  and  praying,  arose,  sighing,  gazed  strangely 
on  me  with  a  sickly,  silent;  glance,  and  finally  tottered  weakly  away 

The  tombs  of  the  Scalioeri  are  also  near  the  Piazza  delle  Erbe. 
They  are  as  wonderfully  splendid,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  they  should 
stand  in  a  narrow  corner,  where  they  must  crowd  together  to  take 
up  as  little  room  as  possible,  and  where  there  remains  but  little  space 
for  the  visitor  to  behold  them  aright.  It  seems  as  though  we  saw 
in  this  an  historical  comparison.    The  race  of  the  Scaligeri  fills 


—   279  — 


but  a  small  corner  in  Italian  history,  but  that  corner  is  crowded  with 
deeds  of  daring,  splendid  plans,  and  all  the  magnificence  of  pride. 
And  we  find  them  on  their  monuments  as  in  history — proud  iron 
knights,  on  iron  steeds,  and  among  them,  surpassing  in  splendor,  Can 
Grande,  the  uncle,  and  Mastino,  the  nephew. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  amphitheatre  of  Verona ;  it  is  large 
enough  to  give  space  to  many  remarks,  and  there  is  no  remark  which 
may  not  find  a  space  in  it.  It  is  built  altogether  in  that  earnest, 
practical  style,  whose  beauty  consists  of  perfect  solidity,  and  which 
like  all  public  buildings  of  the  Romans,  breathes  out  a  spirit  which 
is  nothing  else  save  the  spirit  of  Rome  itself.  And  Rome  ?  Who  is 
so  soundly  ignorant,  that  his  heart  does  not  beat  at  the  mention  of 
this  name,  and  whose  soul  is  not  at  least  thrilled  by  a  traditional 
terror  ?  For  myself  I  confess  that  my  feelings  are  rather  those  of 
fear  than  pleasure,  when  I  reflect  that  I  shall  soon  tread  on  the  lair 
of  old  Rome  itself.  "  Old  Rome  is  long  dead,"  said  I,  soothingly  to 
myself,  "  and  thou  wilt  have  the  pleasure  of  regarding  her  fair  corpse, 
without  danger.  But  then  the  Falstaffian  thought  came  into  my 
head  :  "  What  if  she  were  not  as  yet  really  dead,  and  has  only  feigned 
to  be  so,  and  should  suddenly  arise — the  thought  is  terrible." 

When  I  visited  the  amphitheatre,  comedy  was  being  played  in  it ; 
a  little  wooden  stage  was  erected  in  its  midst,  on  which  all  sorts  of 
Italian  harlequinry  was  being  acted,  and  the  spectators  sat  partly  on 
little  chairs  and  partly  on  the  high  stone  benches  of  the  ancient 
amphitheatre.  There  I  too  sat  and  saw  Brighella's  and  Tartaglia's 
mock  fighting,  on  the  same  spot  where  the  Romans  once  sat  and 
gazed  on  their  battles  of  gladiators  and  wild  beasts.  The  heaven 
above  me  with  its  crystal-blue  shell  was  still  the  same  as  of  old. 
Little  by  little  it  grew  dark,  the  stars  shimmered  out,  TrufFaldino* 
laughed,  Smeraldina  wailed,  and  finally  Pantaloon  came  and  joined 
their  hands.  The  multitude  clapped  their  approbation,  and  went  their 
way  rejoicing.  The  whole  play  had  not  cost  one  drop  of  blood.  But 
it  was  only  a  play.    But  the  plays  of  the  Romans  were  no  plays, 


♦Those  familiar  with  the  "Fantasies  of  Cali.ot,"  will  have  an  accurate  idea  of  the  cha- 
racters and  appearance  of  these  popular  buffo-individuals. — [Note  by  Translator.] 


—   280  — 


these  men  could  never  have  satiated  their  souls  with  mockeries,  they 
lacked  that  child-like  cheerfulness  of  soul ;  and  according  to  their 
stern  natures,  they  manifested  in  their  sports  the  harshest,  bloodiest 
earnestness.  They  were  not  great  men,  but  by  their  position  they 
were  greater  than  all  the  other  children  of  earth — for  they  stood  on 
Rome.  When  they  descended  from  the  Seven  Hills,  they  were  again 
small.  Hence  the  littleness  which  we  discover  in  their  private  life ; 
in  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  those  palimpsests  of  nature,  where  the 
original  old  stone  text  is  again  brought  to  life,  showing  the  traveller 
Roman  life  in  little  houses,  with  diminutive  rooms,  which  contrast  so 
singularly  with  those  colossal  buildings,  which  set  forth  their  public 
life,  and  those  theatres,  aqueducts,  fountains,  highways,  and  bridges, 
Avhose  ruins  still  awake  our  wonder.  And  this  is  just  it — the  Greeks 
were  great  in  the  idea  of  Art,  the  Hebrews  in  the  idea  of  a  holiest 
God,  and  the  Romans  in  the  idea  of  their  eternal  Rome,  wherever  it 
was  by  them  fought,  written,  or  built.  The  greater  Rome  became 
the  more  she  extended  this  idea,  the  individual  was  lost  in  it,  the 
great  who  rose  above  it  were  still  borne  along  by  it,  and  it  makes  the 
littleness  of  the  little  still  more  apparent.  On  this  account  the  Romans 
were  at  the  same  time  the  greatest  heroes  and  the  greatest  satirists — 
heroes  while  they  acted  and  thought  of  Rome,  satirists  if  they  thought 
of  Rome  and  judged  of  the  deeds  of  their  cotemporaries.  Measured 
by  such  an  enormous  standard  as  the  greatness  of  Rome,  the  greatest 
personality  must  have  appeared  dwarflike  and  even  have  attracted 
mockery.  Tacitus  is  the  grimmest  of  masters  in  this  satire,  because 
he,  more  than  any  other,  felt  in  his  soul  the  grandeur  of  Rome  and 
the  littleness  of  men.  He  is  gloriously  in  his  element  whenever  he 
can  tell  us  what  slanderous  tongues  prattled  in  the  forum  over  some 
deed  of  imperial  infamy ;  and  fiercely  delighted  when  he  has  an  oppor- 
tunity of  detailing  some  senatorial  scandal  or  some  abject  flattery 
which  missed  its  mark. 

I  remained  walking  for  a  long  time  on  the  upper  benches  of  the 
amphitheatre,  dreaming  my  way  back  into  the  dim  past.  As  all 
buildings  reveal  most  clearly  in  twilight  their  inner  spirit,  so  did  these 
walls  whisper  to  me  in  their  fragmentary  lapidary  style,  the  most 
mysterious  things — for  they  spoke  of  the  men  of  old  Rome,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  beheld  their  spirits  wandering  far  below  me  like 
white  shadows  in  the  darkened  circus.  I  seemed  to  see  the  Greeks 
with  their  inspired  martyr  eyes  !  "  Tiberius  Sempronius  !"  cried  I, 
aloud — "  I  will  vote  with  thee  for  the  Agrarian  law  !"  And  I  saw 
Caesar  too,  wandering  arm-in-arm  with  Marcus  Brutus."    "  Are  ye 


—   281  — 


again  reconciled  ?"  I  cried  "  We  both  believed  that  we  were  in  the 
right,"  laughed  Cesar  up  to  me.  "  I  knew  not  that  a  Roman  still 
existed,  and  therefore  thought  myself  justified  in  putting  Rome  in 
my  pocket — and  because  my  son  Marcus  was  just  this  Roman,  he 
thought  himself  justified  in  making  way  with  me."  Behind  the  two 
glided  Tiberius  Nero  with  cloud-like  limbs  and  undetermined  mien. 
And  there  were  women  too,  in  the  spectral  throng ;  among  them 
Agrippina,  with  beautiful  imperial  features,  like  those  of  an  antique 
statue,  and  on  which  the  traces  of  pain  seemed  petrified.  "  Whom 
seekest  thou,  daughter  of  Germanicus  !"  Scarcely  had  I  heard  her 
wail,  ere  there  rolled  over  all  the  heavy  tones  of  a  vesper-bell,  and 
the  horrible  drumming  of  the  evening  roll  call.  The  proud  Roman 
spirits  passed  away,  aud  I  found  myself  once  more  in  the  Austrian 
Christian  present  age. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

As  soon  as  it  is  dark  the  beau  monde  of  Verona  promenades  on 
the  place  La  Bra,  or  sits  there  on  little  chairs  before  the  cafes,  sip- 
ping sherbet,  and  evening  air  and  music.  It  is  right  pleasant  sitting 
there — the  dreaming  heart  cradles  itself  in  soft  tones,  and  rings  back 
in  echo  to  them.  Often,  as  if  reeling  with  sleep,  it  trembles  when  the 
trumpets  re-echo  and  join  in  with  full  orchestra.  Then  the  soul  is 
again  revived  as  with  fresh  sunshine,  great  flowering  feelings  and 
memories  with  vast  black  eyes  come  blooming  up,  and  over  them 
sweep  thoughts  like  trains  of  clouds,  proud,  and  slowly  and  eternally. 

I  wandered  until  midnight  through  the  streets  of  Verona.  Little 
by  little  they  were  deserted  and  re-echoed  strangely.  In  the  half 
moon  light,  the  buildings  and  their  armaments  glimmered  strangely, 
and  many  a  marble  face  looked  pale  and  painfully  upon  me.  I  walked 
quickly  past  the  tombs  of  the  Scaligeri,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as 
though  Can  Grande,  courteous  as  ever  towards  poets — would  descend 
from  his  horse,  and  accompany  me  as  guide.  "  Still  where  thou  art," 
I  cried,  "  I  need  thee  not.  My  heart  is  the  best  guide  and  tells  all 
that  passes  in  the  houses,  and  excepting  names  and  dates,  tells  them 
truly  enough." 

As  I  came  to  the  Roman  triumphal  gate,  there  swept  through  it  a 
black  monk,  and  far  in  the  distance  sounded  a  rumbling  German 

24* 


—    282  — 


"  Werdet?'  (Who  goes  there  ?")  "  Good  friend,"  answered  a  langhing 
soprano. 

But  what  woman's  voice  was  that  which  thrilled  so  strangely  sweet 
through  ray  soul,  as  I  ascended  the  Scala  Mazzantif  It  was  a  song 
which  echoed  as  if  from  a  dying  nightingale — death-delicately — and 
which  seemed  to  cry  to  the  very  stone  walls  for  aid.  On  this  spot, 
Antonio  Della  Scala  murdered  his  brother  Bartolomeo,  as  the  latter 
went  to  meet  his  lady-love.  And  my  heart  told  me  that  she  sat  in 
her  chamber  awaiting  her  beloved,  and  sang  to  drown  forboding  fears. 
But  soon  the  song  and  air  seemed  to  me  so  strangely  familiar — I  had 
before  heard  those  silken,  fearful,  bleeding  tones ;  they  twined  around 
me  soft,  tearful  memories,  and — oh  thou  stupid  heart,  said  I  to  myself, 
hast  thou  then  forgotten  the  song  of  the  sick  Moorish  king  sung  to 
thee  so  often  by  the  dead  Maria?  And  the  voice  itself — knowest 
thou  no  longer  the  voice  of  the  dead  Maria 2 

The  long  drawn  notes  followed  me  through  every  street,  into  the 
hotel  Due  Torre  — into  my  bed-room — into  my  dream.  And  there  I 
saw  once  more  my  sweet,  dead  life,  lying  beautiful  and  motionless, 
the  old  washerwoman  stole  away,  with  a  meaning  side-glance,  the 
night-violet  breathed  out  its  perfume,  I  again  kissed  the  lovely  lips, 
and  the  dear  corpse  slowly  arose  to  offer  again  a  kiss. 

If  I  only  knew  what  it  was  that  blew  out  the  light ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  Knowest  thou  the  land  where  the  bright  lemon  blows  ?" 

Knöwest  thou  the  song?  All  Italy  is  sketched  in  it,  but  in  the 
sighing  tones  of  longing  and  desire.  Goethe  in  his  Italian  Journey  has 
sung  it  more  in  detail,  and  whenever  he  paints,  he  always  has  the 
original  before  his  eyes,  and  we  can  rely  on  the  truthfulness,  both  of 
outline  and  of  coloring.  And  I  find  it  appropriate  to  speak  here, 
once  for  all,  of  Goethe's  Italian  J ourney,  and  I  do  this  the  more 
willingly,  since  he  made  the  same  tour  from  Verona  through  the 
Tyrol.  I  have  already  spoken  of  that  work  before  I  was  personally 
familiar  with  its  subject,  and  I  now  find  my  presentiment  as  to  its 
merits  fully  established.  Everywhere  in  it  we  find  a  practical  com- 
prehension and  the  calm  repose  of  nature.  Goethe  holds  the  mirror 
up  to— or  to  speak  more  accurately — is  himself  the  mirror  of  nature. 
Nature  wished  to  know  how  she  looked,  and  therefore  created  Goethe. 


—    283  — 

He  even  reflects  the  thoughts  and  intentions  of  nature,  and  we  should 
not  judge  harshly  of  some  enthusiastic  "  Goethian"  especially  in  the 
dog-days,  if  he  is  at  times  so  astonished  at  the  identity  of  the  object 
mirrored  with  its  original,  that  he  ascribes  to  the  mirror  a  power  of 
creating  similar  objects.  A  certain  Mr.  Eckermaxx  once  wrote  a 
book  on  Goethe,  in  which  he  solemnly  assures  us  that  if  the  Lord 
on  creating  the  world  had  said  to  Goethe,  "  dear  Goethe,  I  am  now, 
the  Lord  be  praised,  at  an  end.  I  have  created  everything  except 
the  birds  and  the  trees,  and  you  would  oblige  me  by  getting  up  these 
trifles  for  me" — then  Goethe  would  have  finished  them  all  in  the 
spirit  of  the  original  design, — the  birds  with  feathers,  and  the  trees 
of  a  green  color. 

There  is  some  truth  in  all  this,  and  I  even  believe  that  in  some 
particulars  Goethe  could  have  given  the  Lord  a  few  valuable  hints 
as  to  the  improvement  of  certain  articles,  and  would,  for  instance, 
have  created  Herr  Eckermaxx  much  more  correctly  by  covering 
him  with  green  feathers.*  It  is  at  least  a  pity  that  a  tuft  of  green 
feathers  does  not  grow  out  of  Eckermaxx's  head,  and  Goethe  did  in 
fact  strive  to  remedy  the  defect  as  far  as  possible,  by  writing  to  Jena 
for  a  doctor's  hat,  and  by  placing  it  with  his  own  hands  on  his 
admirer's  poll. 

Next  to  Goethe's  Italian  Journey,  I  would  commend  Lady 
Morgan's  "  Italy."'  and  the  "  Corinna"  of  Madame  de  Stael.  What 
these  ladies  lack  in  talent  they  make  up  in  the  manliness  of  thought, 
which  is  wanting  in  the  great  poet.  For  Lady  Morgax  has  spoken 
like  a  man— she  spoke  scorpions  to  the  hearts  of  brazen  hirelings,  and 
sweet  were  the  notes  of  this  fluttering  nightingale  of  freedom.  Of 
like  nature — as  many  well  kuow — was  Madame  de  Stael,  an  amiable 
vivmdiere  in  the  liberal  army,  who  ran  courageously  through  the 
ranks  of  the  combatants  with  her  bits  of  enthusiasm,  strengthening 
the  weary,  and  fighting  with  them  too—better  than  the  best. 

As  for  descriptions  of  Italian  towns.  William  Müller  gave  us  a 
review  of  them  some  time  since  in  "Hermes."  Among  the  older 
German  writers  in  this  line,  the  most  distinguished  in  genius  or  origi- 
nality are  Moritz,  Archexholtz,  Bartels,  the  brave  Seume,  Arxdt, 
Meyer,  Bexkowitz,  and  Behfus.  I  know  but  little  of  the  more 
recent  tourists,  and  I  have  derived  from  them  but  little  pleasure  or 
profit.  Among  these  I  may  mention  the  "  Bome,  the  Bomans,  and 
the  Boman  Women"  of  the  too  early  deceased  W.  Müller — ah!  he 


A  la  poll-parrot. 

21* 


—   284  — 


was  a  German  poet ! — then  the  journey  of  Kephalides — which  is  a 
little  dry;  Lesmann's  "Cisalpine  Leaves"  —  which  is  a  little  too 
watery,  and  finally  ,  the  "  Tours  in  Italy,  since  1822,  of  Frederick 
Thiersch,  Ludwig  Schorn,  Edward  Gerhardt,  and  Leo  von 
Klenze."  Only  the  first  part  of  this  work  has  as  yet  appeared,  and 
it  consists  principally  of  contributions  from  my  dear  and  noble-hearted 
friend,  Thiersch,  whose  humane  glance  is  evident  in  every  line.* 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  bright  lemon  blows  ? 
'Mid  dark  green  leaves  the  golden  orange  glows, 
A  gentle  breeze  sweeps  o'er  its  happy  lands. 
Calm  lies  the  myrtles— high  the  laurel  stands. 
Knowest  thou  it  well  ? 

Oh  there,  oh  there,  with  thee, 
How  glad  were  I,  loved  one,  to  wander  free. 

Only  don't  go  in  the  beginning  of  August,  when  you  are  liable  to 
be  roasted  by  the  sun  during  the  day,  and  to  be  devoured  by  fleas  at 
night.  And  I  moreover  counsel  thee,  thou  best  of  readers,  not  to 
travel  from  Verona  to  Milan  in  the  post  coach. 

I  rode  in  company  with  six  bandits,  in  an  unwieldly,  bumping 
carozza,  which  on  account  of  the  all-prevailing  dust  was  so  carefully 
shut  up,  that  I  could  see  but  little  of  the  beauty  of  the  scenery.  Only 
twice  ere  we  gained  Brescia,  did  my  neighbor  lift  the  side  leather 
curtain  in  order  to  spit.  The  first  time  he  did  this,  I  saw  nothing  but 
some  perspiring  fir-trees,  whichin  their  green,  winter  over-coats  seemed 
to  suffer  greatly  from  the  sultry  summer  heat ; — the  second  time  I 
saw  a  fragment  of  a  wondrous  clear  blue  lake,  wherein  the  sun  and  a 
lean  grenadier  mirrored  themselves.  The  latter  of  the  pair — an 
Austrian  Narcissus — gazed  admiringly  and  joyfully  at  the  accuracy 
with  which  his  reflections  imitated  all  his  movements,  when  he  pre- 
sented, shouldered,  or  aimed  with  his  gun. 

I  have  but  little  to  tell  of  Brescia,  as  I  occupied  myself  during  the 
time  of  my  "  residence"  there  in  eating  a  good  luncheon.  No  one  can 


•  Frederick  Thiersch,  well  known  from  his  contributions  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
Greek  language  and  art,  and  to  aesthetics.  The  translator,  who  was  while  in  Germany 
a  pupil  of  Thiersch",  trusts  that  he  will  not  be  accused  of  undue  intrusion  in  warmly 
assenting  to  Heine's  commendation  of  one,  whom  he,  (the  translator.)  has  also  learned 
to  esteem  and  admire. 


—    285  — 

Marne  a  poor  traveller  for  satisfying  bodily  hunger  in  preference  to 
the  spiritual.  Still  I  was  conscientious  enough,  ere  I  re-entered  the 
coach  to  inquire  a  few  particulars  relative  to  the  town  from  a  waiter, 
and  learned  of  him  that  Brescia  contained  among  other  things,  forty 
thousand  inhabitants,  one  town  hall,  twenty-one  coffee  houses,  twenty 
catholic  churches,  a  madhouse,  a  synagogue,  a  menagerie,  a  house 
of  correction,  a  hospital,  an  equally  good  theatre,  and  a  gallows  for 
those  thieves  who  steal  less  than  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

I  arrived  about  midnight  in  Milan,  and  went  to  Herr  Reichmann's 
— a  German  whose  hotel  is  fitted  up  entirely  in  the  German  manner. 
It  was  the  best  inn  in  all  Italy,  said  certain  friends  whom  I  there 
met,  and  who  had  mournful  tales  to  relate  relative  to  Italian  swindling 
and  taking  in.  Especially  did  Sir  William  curse  as  he  assured 
me  that  if  Europe  is  the  head  of  the  world,  Italy  is  its  bump 
of  theft.  The  poor  baronet  had  been  obliged  to  pay  in  the  Locanda 
Croce  bianco  at  Padua  not  less  than  twelve  francs  for  a  poor  break- 
fast, and  at  Yicenza  some  wretch  of  a  waiter  had  demanded  a  gratuity 
for  picking  up  for  him  a  glove,  just  dropped  from  his  coach.  His 
cousin  Tom  said  that  all  Italians  are  rogues,  except  that  they  do  not 
steal.  Had  he  been  more  attractive,  he  might  have  said  the  same 
of  their  women.  The  third  in  the  party  was  a  Mr.  Liver  whom  I 
had  left  as  a  young  calf  in  Brighton,  and  whom  I  now  found  a  bceuf 
a  la  mode  in  Milan.  He  was  dressed  entirely  as  a  dandy,  and  I  have 
never  met  a  mortal  who  better  knew  how  to  bring  out  the  corners, 
with  his  figure.  When  he  stuck  his  thumbs  into  his  vest  armlets  he  made 
nothing  but  angles — his  very  mouth  folded  up  square  as  a  brick. 
Withal  he  had  a  square  head,  small  behind,  pointed  above,  with  a  low 
forehead,  and  a  very  long  chin.  Among  the  English  acquaintances 
whom  I  met  in  Milan  was  Liver's  corpulent  aunt,  who  seemed  like 
an  avalanche  of  fat,  which  had  rolled  down  from  the  Alps  in  company 
with  two  snow-white,  snow-cold  winter  geese,  Miss  Polly  and  Miss 
Molly. 

Do  not  accuse  me,  dear  reader,  of  Anglomania,  should  I  very  fre- 
quently speak  of  English  people  in  this  book.  They  are  too  numerous 
in  Italy  not  to  be  mentioned;  they  sweep  over  the  land  in  swarms, 
they  lodge  in  every  inn,  crowd  every  where  to  see  every  thing,  and 
it  is  impossible  to  imagine  an  Italian  orange  blossom  without  think- 
ing of  some  pretty  English  girl  smelling  at  it,  or  a  picture  gallery 
without  a  mob  of  Englishmen,  who,  guide-book  in  hand,  go  rushing 
around  to  make  certain  that  every  thing  is  there  which  is  described 
in  their  guide-books.    When  we  see  this  blonde,  red-cheeked  race 


—   286  — 


1 


with  their  shining  coaches,  many-colored  lackeys,  neighing  blood- 
horses,  green  veiled  chamber-maids,  and  other  costly  apparatus, 
inquisitive  and  ornamented,  sweeping  over  the  Alps,  and  through 
Italy,  we  can  imagine  that  we  see  an  elegant  invasion.  And  in  fact, 
the  son  of  Albion,  albeit  he  wears  clean  linen  and  pays  cash  down  for 
every  thing,  is  a  civilized  barbarian  as  compared  with  the  Italian, 
who  indicates  a  civilization  now  passing  into  barbarism.  The  former 
shows  a  suppressed  rudeness,  the  latter  a  neglected  refinement.  And 
even  the  pale  Italian  faces,  with  the  suffering  white  of  their  eyes, 
and  their  sickly  delicate  lips — how  silently  aristocratic  do  they  seem 
as  compared  to  stiff  British  faces  with  their  vulgar  ruddy  health. 
The  whole  Italian  race  is  internally  sick,  and  sick  people  are  invariably 
more  refined  than  the  robust,  for  only  the  sick  man  is  really  a  man, 
his  limbs  have  a  history  of  suffering,  they  are  spiritualized.  I  believe 
that  by  suffering,  animals  could  be  made  human  ;  I  have  seen  a 
dying  hound  who  in  his  last  agonies  gazed  on  me  with  the  glance  of 
a  man. 

The  suffering  expression  of  the  Italians  is  most  visible  when  we 
speak  to  them  of  the  misfortunes  of  their  country,  and  in  Milan  there 
is  plenty  of  opportunity  for  that.  That  is  the  sharpest  wound  in  the 
breast  of  an  Italian,  and  it  quivers  and  twitches  when  touched  ever 
so  lightly.  They  have  on  such  occasions  a  peculiar  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  which  inspires  in  me  a  strange  pity.  One  of  my  Britons 
regarded  the  Italians  as  being  politically  indifferent,  because  they 
seemed  to  listen  with  equanimity,  when  we  strangers  chatted  on  the 
catholic  emancipation  and  the  Turkish  war ;  and  he  was  unjust  enough 
to  say  as  much,  mockingly,  to  a  pale  Italian  with  a  jet  black  beard. 
We  had  the  previous  evening  seen  the  debut  of  a  new  opera  in  La 
Scala,  and  witnessed  the  tremendous  enthusiasm  which  a  first  success 
excites.  "You  Italians,"  said  the  Englishman,  "appear  to  be  dead 
to  every  thing  save  music,  which  is  the  only  thing  that  seems  to  excite 
you."  "  You  do  us  injustice,"  said  the  pale  one,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
"  Ah  !"  sighed  he — "  Italy  sits  elegiacally  dreaming  on  her  ruins,  and 
when  she  is  at  times  suddenly  awakened  by  the  melody  of  a  song  and 
springs  wildly  up,  this  sudden  inspiration  is  not  due  to  the  song  itself, 
but  rather  to  the  ancient  memories  and  feelings  which  the  song  has 
awakened — which  Italy  has  ever  borne  in  her  heart,  and  which  now 
mightily  gush  forth — and  this  is  the  meaning  of  the  wild  tumult  which 
you  have  heard  in  La  Scala." 

Perhaps  this  confession  also  explains  the  enthusiasm  which  Ros- 
sini's or  Meyerbeer's  operas  have  every  where  produced  on  the  other 

23*' 


—    287  — 


side  of  the  Alps.  If  I  ever  in  my  life  saw  human  madness  it  was  at 
a  representation  of  the  Crociafo  in  Egitto,  when  the  music  frequently 
underwent  a  sudden  transition  from  soft  wailing  tones  to  wild  active 
pain.    Such  madness  is  termed  by  Italians  :  furore. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Although  I  have  here,  dear  reader — the  Brera  and  Ambrosiana 
being  in  my  way — a  glorious  opportunity  to  serve  up  views  on  art, 
I  will  still  suffer  this  cup  to  pass  away  from  you,  contenting  myself 
with  the  remark  that  I  have  observed  the  pointed  chin,  which  gives 
such  a  sentimental  impression  to  so  many  pictures  of  the  Lombard 
school,  on  many  a  pretty  Lombardess  in  the  streets  of  Milan.  It 
has  always  been  marvellously  comforting  and  edifying  to  me  when  an 
opportunity  presented  itself  to  compare  the  works  of  a  school  with  the 
originals  which  served  as  its  models ;  for  thus  I  more  accurately 
appreciated  its  character.  Thus  in  the  great  fair  of  Rotterdam,  the 
divine  geniality  of  Jan  Steen  was  suddenly  revealed  to  me ;  and  thus 
at  a  later  date  I  learned  on  Lung  VArno  the  truth  of  form  and  the 
effective  spirit  of  the  Florentines,  while  in  San  Marco  I  caught  the 
truth  of  colour  and  the  dreamy  superficialty  of  the  Venetians.  Go  to 
Rome,  my  dear  soul — go  to  Rome — and  there  perhaps  you  may  rise 
to  a  perception  of  the  ideal  and  to  the  appreciation  of  Raphael. 

However  there  is  one  marvel  at  Milan — and  by  long  odds  the 
greatest — which  I  cannot  leave  unnoted — that  is  the  Cathedral. 

From  a  distance  it  looks  as  though  cut  from  white  note  paper,  and 
when  near  it  the  observer  is  startled  to  find  that  this  lace-like  scissor- 
ing is  all  of  undeniable  white  marble.  The  countless  images  of  saints, 
which  cover  the  entire  building,  which  peep  forth  under  little  Gothic 
baldachins,  and  which  rise  from  every  point,  form  a  petrified  multitude 
which  well  nigh  bewilders  our  senses.  Yet  if  we  study  the  entire 
work  a  while  longer,  we  find  that  it  is  right  pretty,  colossally  neat,  a 
play  thing  for  giant  children.  But  it  appears  best  in  the  midnight 
moonshine,  for  then  all  the  white  stone-men  come  thronging  solemnly  i 
adown  from  their  height,  and  sweep  together  over  the  place  and 
whisper  an  old  legend  in  our  ear — a  strange,  secret  tale  of  Galeazzo 
Visconti,  who  begun  the  Cathedral,  and  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
who  at  a  later  day  continued  it. 

"  D'ye  see" — said  to  me  a  singular  looking  saint  who  had  evidently 


—    288  — 


been  but  recently  manufactured  from  bran  new  marble,  "d'ye  see,  my 
old  friends  here  cannot  understand  why  the  Emperor  Napoleon 
worked  away  so  industriously  at  the  Cathedral.  But  I  flatter  myself 
that  I  have  seen  into  the  matter.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  this 
great  stone  house  was  at  any  rate  a  very  useful  building,  and  that  it 
might  be  used  when  Christianity  shall  have  gone  out  of  date." 

"  When  Christianity  shall  be  out  of  date  !" — I  was  fairly  frightened 
to  hear  that  there  were  saints  who  talked  this  way  in  Italy,  and  that 
in  a  place  where  Austrian  sentinels  with  bear-skin  caps  and  knapsacks 
were  marching  up  and  down.  Any  how  the  old  stone  chap  was 
right,  for  the  interior  of  the  Cathedral  is  pleasant  and  cool  in  summer 
and  cheerful  and  agreeable,  and  will  be  worth  something,  do  what 
they  will  with  it.  . 

The  completion  of  this  Cathedral  was  one  of  Napoleon's  favorite 
ideas,  and  he  was  not  wide  of  the  mark  when  his  power  came  to  an 
end.  The  Austrians  are  now  carrying  it  on.  They  are  also  working 
at  the  celebrated  triumphal  arch  which  is  to  conclude  the  Simplon 
road,  though  of  course  Napoleon's  statue  will  not  be  placed  on  the 
summit  of  the  arch,  as  was  originally  determined.  At  all  events, 
the  great  Emperor  has  left  behind  him  a  monument  which  is  better 
and  more  durable  than  marble,  and  which  no  Austrian  can  hide  from 
observation.  Long  after  the  rest  of  us  ordinary  mortals  have  been 
mowed  down  by  the  scythe  of  Time,  and  have  been  blown  away  like 
chaff"  of  the  field,  that  statue  monument  will  remain  unscathed ;  new 
races  will  rise  from  the  earth,  will  gaze  bewildered  on  the  image  and 
pass  away  again  to  earth  ; — and  Time,  incapable  of  injuring  the  form, 
will  seek  to  involve  it  in  legendary  myths,  and  its  tremendous  history 
will  finally  be  a  myth. 

Perhaps  after  thousands  of  years  some  wonderfully  shrewd  school- 
master in  a  fearfully  profound  dissertation  will  prove  beyond  cavil, 
that  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  identical  with  that  other  Titan  who 
stole  fire  from  the  gods,  and  who  for  this  trespass  was  chained  to  a 
solitary  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  as  a  prey  to  a  vulture,  which 
day  by  day  gnawed  away  at  his  heart. 


—    281)  — 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

My  excellent  friend  and  reader,  I  sincerely  hope  that  you  will 
not  mistake  me  for  an  unconditional  Bonapartist ;  my  adoration  is 
entirely  for  the  genius  and  not  for  the  deeds  of  the  man.  I  love  him 
beyond  all  limit  up  to  the  eighteenth  Brtimaire — when  he  betrayed 
freedom.  And  this  he  did,  not  from  necessity,  but  from  a  secret 
predilection  for  aristocracy.  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  an  aristo- 
crat, a  noble  enemy  of  middle  class  equality,  and  it  was  an  enormous 
mistake  and  misunderstanding  when  the  European  aristocracy,  repre- 
sented by  England,  made  such  deadly  war  on  him ;  for  although  he 
intended  to  introduce  a  few  changes  into  the  personnel  of  this 
aristocracy,  he  still  wished  to  uphold  the  majority  of  them  and  their 
actual  principle ;  he  would  have  regenerated  this  aristocracy  which 
now,  after  its  last  and  certainly  final  victory,  lies  exhausted  by  age, 
loss  of  blood  and  weariness. 

Dear  reader !  let  us  here,  once  and  for  all,  understand  one  another. 
I  never  praise  the  dead,  but  the  human  soul  whose  garment  the  deed 
is,  and  history  is  nothing  but  the  soul's  old  wardrobe.  But  love 
sometime  loves  old  hats  and  coats,  and  even  so  do  I  love  the  cloak 
of  Marengo. 

"  We  are  on  the  battle  field  of  Marengo  !"  How  my  heart  laughed 
as  the  postillion  said  this.  I  was  in  company  with  a  very  gentle- 
manly Lieflander,  who  rather  played  the  Russian  the  evening  before 
we  had  left  Milan,  and  the  next  morning  we  saw  the  sun  rise  over 
the  famed  field  of  battle. 

It  was  here  that  General  Bonaparte  drank  so  mighty  a  draught 
from  the  goblet  of  renown,  that  in  his  intoxication  he  became  Consul, 
Emperor,  World-conqueror,  and  first  grew  sober  at  St.  Helena.  And 
it  fared  no  better  with  us  who  also  got  tipsy  with  him,  dreamed  the 
same  wild  dreams,  awoke  in  the  same  manner,  and  now  in  all  the 
misery  of  soberness  are  making  all  sorts  of  reasonable  reflections. 
And  it  often  seems  to  us  as  if  warlike  reputation  were  an  old- 
fashioned,  out-of-date  sort  of  pleasure,  for  under  Napoleon,  a  battle 
attained  its  acme  of  significance,  and  he  was  perhaps  the  last  of  the 
conquerors. 

It  really  seems  as  though  more  spiritual  than  material  interests 
were  now  being  fought  out,  and  as  though  universal  history  were  no 
longer  a  robber-legend,  but  a  ghost  story.    The  grand  lever  which 

25 


—    290  — 

ambitious  and  avaricious  princes  were  once  wont  to  employ  so  indus- 
triously— that  is  to  say,  nationality,  with  all  its  vanity  and  hatred, 
is  now  musty  and  used  up ;  day  by  day  the  ridiculous  prejudices  of 
races  are  disappearing;  all  harsh  peculiarities  are  disappearing  in 
the  universality  of  European  civilization,  there  are  no  longer  nations 
but  parties,  and  it  is  wonderful  to  behold  how  these,  despite  the  most 
varied  colours,  recognize  each  other,  and  make  themselves  mutually 
intelligible,  notwithstanding  the  difference  of  language.  As  there  is 
a  material  policy  of  States,  so  there  is  also  a  spiritual  party-policy; 
and  as  the  States'  policy  would  quickly  bring  to  a  general,  zealous 
European  war,  the  smallest  strife  which  should  spring  up  between 
the  smallest  powers,  where  interest  is  the  governing  principle,  so  on 
the  other  hand,  the  smallest  strife  could  not  take  place,  in  which, 
owing  to  the  party-policy  already  alluded  to,  the  general  spiritual 
tendencies  and  meanings  would  not  be  at  once  understood,  and  by 
which  the  most  distant  and  heterogeneous  parties  would  find  them- 
selves compelled  to  take  side  jjro  or  contra. 

On  account  of  this  party-policy,  which  I  call  a  spiritual-policy, 
because  its  interests  are  more  spiritual  and  its  ultimas  rationes  not 
metallic,  they  now  form,  as  if  by  the  medium  of  the  States'  policy, 
two  great  masses  opposed  to  each  other,  fighting  with  glance  and 
word.  The  watchwords  and  representatives  of  these  two  great 
parties  change  day  by  day — there  is  no  lack  of  confusion— the 
greatest  misunderstandings  often  arise,  and  these  are  often  rather 
increased  than  explained  by  the  authors,  who  form  the  diplomatists 
of  the  spiritual  party;  but  though  heads  may  err,  hearts  still  feel 
what  they  need,  and  time  presses  on  with  her  great  question. 

But  what  is  the  great  question  of  the  age  ? 

It  is  that  of  emancipation.  Not  simply  the  emancipation  of  the 
Irish,  Greeks,  Frankfort  Jews,  West  Indian  negroes,  and  other 
oppressed  races,  but  the  emancipation  of  the  whole  world,  and 
especially  that  of  Europe,  which  has  attained  its  majority  and  now 
tears  itself  loose  from  the  iron  leading-strings  of  a  privileged  aris- 
tocracy. A  few  philosophical  renegades  from  freedom  may  forge, 
if  they  will,  for  us  the  most  elaborate  chains  of  conclusions,  to  prove 
that  millions  of  men  are  born  to  be  beasts  of  burden  for  a  few  thou- 
sand nobles,  but  they  will  never  convince  us  until  they  make  it  clear, 
to  borrow  the  expression  of  Voltaire,  that  the  former  are  born  with 
saddles  on  their  backs,  and  the  latter  with  spurs  on  their  heels. 

Every  age  has  its  problem,  whose  solution  advances  the  world. 
The  earlier  inequality  established  by  the  feudal  system  in  Europe, 


—    291  — 


T»a<?  perhaps  necessary,  or  a  necessary  condition  of  the  advance  of 
humanity;  but  now  it  impedes  the  latter,  and  represses  the  pulsa- 
tions of  the  civilized  heart.  The  French,  who  are  pre-eminently 
the  race  of  social  intercourse,  have  necessarily  suffered  most  from 
this  inequality  which  grates  so  harshly  against  the  principles  of 
sociability,  they  have  sought  to  force  equality  by  gently  nipping  off 
those  heads  which  persisted  in  rising  above  the  rest,  and  their  revo- 
lution was  the  signal  for  a  war  of  independence  for  the  whole  world. 

Honour  to  the  French ! — they  have  taken  good  care  of  the  two 
greatest  needs  of  human  society  —  of  good  eating  and  citizenly 
equality;  they  have  made  the  greatest  advances  in  cookery  and  in 
freedom,  and  if  it  ever  comes  to  pass  that  we  all  hold  together  one 
grand  dinner  of  jolly  good-fellowship — and  on  this  earth  there  is 
nothing  better  than  an  assembly  of  peers  at  a  well-spread  table — 
we  will  give  the  Frenchmen  the  first  toast.  It  will  be  some  time  I 
know  before  this  grand  feast  comes  off,  and  before  emancipation  is 
finished  up, — but  it  is  bound  to  come,  this  blessed  time,  when  we,  all 
reconciled  and  on  a  par,  will  sit  together  around  the  same  table. 
Then  in  union  we  will  fight  against  other  evils  of  the  world,  perhaps 
at  last  against  death  itself — death,  whose  stern  system  of  equality  is 
not,  to  say  the  worst,  so  oppressive  as  the  smiling  theory  of  in- 
equality held  by  aristocracy. 

Laugh  not,  thou  later  reader.  Every  age  believes  that  its  battle 
is  the  most  important — this  is  the  true  creed  of  the  time  in  which  it 
lives  and  dies,  and  we,  too,  will  live  and  die  in  this  religion  of  free- 
dom, which  perhaps  better  deserves  the  name  of  religion  than  the 
hollow,  long  dead  soul-spectre  which  we  have  qualified  by  that  name. 
Our  holy  battle  seems  to  us  to  be  by  far  the  mightiest  ever  yet  fought 
on  earth,  though  a  historical  presentiment  tells  us  that  our  descend- 
ants will  look  down  on  this  strife  with  perhaps  the  same  indifference 
with  which  we  regard  the  combats  of  the  first  men  who  fought  against 
quite  as  terrible  monsters,  dragons  and  robber  giants. 


—    292  — 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

On  the  battle-field  of  Marengo,  reflections  come  flying  around  in 
such  flocks  that  one  can  almost  believe  that  they  are  the  same  which 
many  travellers  have  suddenly  abandoned  there  in  a  hurry,  and  which 
now  go  sweeping  about.  I  love  battle-fields  ;  for,  terrible  as  war  is, 
it  still  sets  forth  the  spiritual  greatness  of  man,  who  has  gone  so  fai 
as  to  defy  his  mightiest  hereditary  enemy — Death.  And  just  so  with 
this  battle  plain,  where  Freedom  danced  on  blood-roses  her  wanton 
bridal  measures.  For,  in  those  days,  France  was  a  bridegroom  who 
had  invited  all  the  world  to  a  wedding,  and  then,  as  the  song  says, 

Hurrah!  upon  the  bridal  eve, 

In  merry  joke,  for  pots,  they  broke 

Aristocratic  heads. 

But,  alas !  every  inch  which  humanity  advances  costs  streams  of 
blood ;  and  is  not  that  paying  rather  dear  ?  Is  not  the  life  of  the 
individual  worth  as  much  as  that  of  the  entire  race  ?  For  every 
single  man  is  a  world  which  is  born  and  which  dies  with  him  ;  beneath 
every  grave-stone  lies  a  world's  history.  "  Be  silent,"  Death  would 
say,  "as  to  those  who  lie  here," — but  we  still  live,  and  will  fig-ht  on  in 
the  holy  battle  for  the  freedom  of  humanity. 

"Who  now  thinks  of  Marengo?"  said  my  travelling  companion, 
the  Liefland  Russian,  as  we  rode  over  the  fallow  field.  "  At  present 
all  eyes  are  turned  towards  the  Balkan,  where  my  countryman,  Die- 
bitsch,  is  fitting  the  turbans  to  the  Turk's  head — and  you'll  see  that 
we'll  take  Constantinople  this  very  year.    Are  you  for  Russia?" 

This  was  a  question  which  I  had  rather  have  answered  anywhere 
but  on  the  field  of  Marengo.  I  saw,  in  the  morning  mists,  the  man 
in  the  little  cocked  hat  and  the  gray  cloak  of  battle — he  darted  on- 
wards, swift  as  a  spirit,  and  far  in  the  distance  rang  a  terribly  sweet 
"  Allons  enfans  de  la  patrie"  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  I 
answered,  "  Yes,  I  am  sound  as  to  Russia." 

And  in  fact,  in  the  wonderful  change  of  watchwords  and  of  repre- 
sentatives in  the  great  battle,  it  has  come  to  such  a  pitch  that  the 
most  enthusiastic  friend  of  revolution  can  only  see  the  safety  of  the 
world  in  the  victory  of  Russia,  and  must  regard  the  Czar  Nicholas 
as  the  gonfalonicre  of  freedom.  Singular  mutation !  Two  years  ago 
we  cast  the  robe  of  this  noble  office  upon  an  English  minister.  The 
howl  of  high  Tory  hatred  against  George  Canning  led  our  choice ;  in 


—    293  — 

the  noble,  humiliating  sufferings  which  he  endured,  we  saw  guaran- 
tees of  his  fidelity,  and  as  he  died  the  death  of  a  martyr,  we  put  on 
mourning,  and  the  eighth  of  August  became  a  sacred  day  in  the  cal- 
endar of  freedom.  But  we  took  the  flags  from  Downing  street  and 
planted  them  anew  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  chose  for  our  standard- 
bearer  the  Emperor  Nicholas,  the  Knight  of  Europe,  who  protected 
Greek  widows  and  orphans  against  Asiatic  barbarians,  and  who  in 
that  brave  battle  won  his  spurs.  Again  the  enemies  of  freedom  had 
betrayed  themselves,  and  we  again  availed  ourselves  of  the  shrewd- 
ness of  their  hatred  to  learn  what  was  for  our  own  benefit.  Again 
the  wonted  vision  came  to  view,  that  we  owed  our  representatives 
more  to  the  elective  majority  of  our  enemies  than  to  our  own  choice ; 
and  as  we  gazed  on  the  marvellously  assorted  multitude  who  sent 
forth  their  best  wishes  to  Heaven  for  the  safety  of  Turkey,  and  for 
the  destruction  of  Russia,  we  quickly  found  out  who  was  our  friend — 
or,  rather,  who  was  the  terror  of  our  foe.  How  the  blessed  Lord  in 
Heaven  must  have  laughed,  when  he  listened  to  the  cotemporary 
prayers  of  Wellington,  the  Grand  Mufti,  the  Pope,  Rothschild  I., 
Metternich,  and  an  endless  mess  of  little  nobles,  stock-jobbers,  priests 
and  Turks,  and  all  for  one  and  the  same  thing — the  safety  of  the 
Crescent ! 

What  the  alarmists  have  fabled  over  the  danger  to  which  we  are  ex- 
posed by  the  overgrowth  of  Russia,  is  rank  nonsense.  We  Germans, 
at  least,  have  nothing  to  risk — a  greater  or  less  degree  of  servitude 
need  not  concern  us,  when  the  greatest  of  blessings,  the  being  set 
free  from  the  relics  of  feudalism  and  of  priesthood  is  at  stake.  They 
threaten  us  with  the  dominion  of  the  knout,  but  I  for  one  will  gladly 
take  a  little  thrashing  if  I  can  only  know  for  a  certainty  that  our 
enemies  will  get  their  share  of  it.  But  I  will  bet  that  they  will  go 
as  of  old,  fawning  and  wheedling  up  to  the  new  powers  that  be, 
graciously  smiling  and  proffering  the  most  shameless  services,  and 
if  it  happens  that  they  once  for  all  must  be  knouted,  they  will  con- 
dition for  the  privilege  of  a  knout  of  honour — just  as  a  nobleman  in 
Siam,  wiien  punished,  is  stuck  into  a  silken  bag  and  is  beaten  with 
perfumed  rods,  while  the  criminal  citizen  is  put  into  a  common  linen 
sack,  and  has  his  blows  laid  on  with  a  stick  utterly  devoid  of  a  sweet 
smelling  savour.  Well,  we  will  grant  them  this  privilege  (since  it  is 
the  only  one)  if  they  are  only  well  whipped,  and  especially  the  Eng- 
lish nobility.  People  may  recall,  if  they  please,  and  as  much  as  they 
please,  that  it  was  this  very  nobility  which  forced  from  despotism 
the  Magna  Charta,  and  that  England,  despite  all  her  maintenance 

25* 


—    291  — 


of  social  inequality,  has  ever  secured  the  personal  liberty  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  that  that  country  was  a  place  of  refuge  for  free  souls  when 
despotism  subdued  the  eutire  continent;  those  are  tempi  passafi! 
England,  with  her  aristocracy,  is  graduall  ysinking;  independent 
spirits  have  now  a  better  place  of  refuge,  and  if  all  Europe  become 
a  single  prison,  there  would  still  be  another  hole  for  escape,  I  mean 
America,  and  God  be  praised !  that  hole  is  larger  than  all  the  prison 
itself. 

But  these  are  all  ridiculous  whimsies,  for  if  any  . one  compares 
England  and  Russia,  with  a  view  to  freedom,  no  doubt  remains  as 
to  which  is  the  right  side  to  choose.  Freedom  has  sprung  in  Eng- 
land from  historical  events — from  privileges ;  in  Russia,  from  prin- 
ciples. The  results  of  those  events — like  the  events  themselves — 
bear  the  stamp  of  the  middle  ages;  all  England  is  congealed  in 
mediaeval,  never  to  be  rejuvenated  institutions,  behind  which  her 
aristocracy  is  entrenched,  awaiting  the  death-struggle.  But  those 
principles  from  which  Russian  freedom  sprung — or  to  speak  more 
correctly,  from  which  Russian  freedom  is  daily  developing  itself,  are 
the  liberal  ideas  of  our  most  recent  times  ;  the  Russian  government 
is  penetrated  through  and  through  with  these  ideas;  its  unlimited 
absolutism  is  rather  a  dictatorship,  by  which  those  ideas  will  be 
brought  directly  to  life.  This  government  is  not  rooted  in  feudalism 
and  priestcraft ;  it  fights  directly  against  the  power  of  the  nobles 
and  of  the  church,  for  even  Catharine  limited  the  power  of  the 
church,  and  the  Russian  nobility  exists  by  church  service.  Russia 
is  a  democratic  state,  I  would  gladly  say,  «a  Christian  state,  if  I 
might  be  permitted  to  use  this  so  often  misused  word  in  its  sweetest 
and  most  cosmopolite  sense,  for  the  Russians,  by  the  very  extent  of 
their  realm,  are  freed  from  the  narrow-mindedness  of  a  heathenish 
national  vanity ;  they  are  citizens  of  the  world,  lacking  only  five- 
sixths,  since  Russia  embraces  one-half  dozenth  of  the  inhabited 
globe. 

And  faith!  when  a  German-Russian,  like  my  travelling  companion, 
plays  the  brag-patriot,  and  talks  about  "our  Russia"  vnd  "our 
Diebitsch,"  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  heard  a  herring  calling  the 
ocean  his  country  and  the  whale  his  compatriot. 


—   295  — 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"I  am  sound  as  to  Russia;" — I  said  on  the  battle  plain  of  Ma- 
rengo, and  quitted  for  a  few  minutes  the  coach,  to  offer  up  my 
morning  devotions. 

The  sun  came  forth  gloriously,  genially,  confidently  from  beneath 
a  triumphal  arch  of  colossal  masses  of  clouds.  But  my  soul  was 
like  the  poor  moon,  which  stood  paling  away  in  heaven.  She  had 
wandered  on  in  her  lonely  course  in  the  desolate  night,  where  happy 
fortune  slept,  and  only  spectres,  owls  and  felons  carried  on  their 
dark  vocations ;  and  now,  when  the  young  day  arose  amid  rays  of 
rejoicing  and  fluttering  flags  of  early  morning  flame,  she  must  pass 
silently  away — a  single  glance  at  the  great  world  of  light  and  she  is 
lost  in  eternal  mist. 

"  It  will  be  a  fine  day,"  cried  my  travelling  companion,  from  the 
coach.  "  Yes — it  will  be  a  fine  day,"  slowly  re-echoed  my  praying 
heart,  as  it  trembled  with  grief  and  joy.  Yes,  it  will  be  a  beautiful 
day,  the  sun  of  freedom  will  warm  the  world  with  a  more  thrilling 
joy  than  that  which  comes  from  cold  aristocratic  stars  ; — there  will 
spring  up  a  new  race,  begotten  in  the  embraces  of  free  choice,  and 
not  in  the  bed  of  compulsion  and  under  the  control  of  clerical  tax- 
gatherers  ;  and  with  free-birth  there  will  arise  in  mankind  free 
thoughts  and  free  feelings  of  which  we — poor  born  serfs — have  no 
conception.  Oh !  as  little  will  they  imagine  how  terrible  was  the 
night  in  which  we  lived  and  how  cruel  was  our  strife  with  terrible 
phantoms,  gloomy  owls,  and  hypocritical  sinners  !  Ah,  we  poor  war- 
riors !  who  must  waste  our  life  in  such  battles,  and  are  exhausted 
and  pale  when  the  day  of  victory  dawns !  The  glow  of  sunrise 
will  no  more  gild  our  cheeks  and  no  longer  warm  our  hearts- — we 
must  die  like  the  fading  moon.  All  too  short  is  the  measure  of  man's 
allotted  path,  at  whose  end  lies  the  pitiless  grave. 

I  really  do  not  know  whether  I  deserve  that  a  laurel  wreath  be 
laid  on  my  coffin.  Poetry,  dearly  as  I  have  loved  it,  has  always  been 
to  me  only  a  holy  plaything  or  a  consecrated  means  whereby  to  at- 
tain a  heavenly  end.  I  have  never  attached  much  value  to  a  poetic 
reputation,  and  I  care  little  whether  my  songs  are  praised  or  found 
fault  with.  But  ye  may  lay  a  sword  on  my  coffin  ;  for  I  was  a  brave 
soldier  in  the  War  of  Freedom  for  Mankind. 


—    296  — 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

During  the  noonday  heat  we  sought  shelter  in  a  Franciscan  mo- 
nastery, situated  on  a  lofty  elevation,  and  which  with  its  dark  cy. 
presses  and  white  monks,  peeped  out  like  a  holy  shooting-box,  looking 
down  into  the  pleasant  green  vallies  of  the  Apennines.  Often  in 
regarding  these  old  churches,  I  know  not  which  most  to  admire,  the 
beauty  of  their  vicinity,  their  great  size,  or  the  equally  great  and 
rock-like  firm  souls  of  their  builders.  They  well  knew  that  only 
their  far-off  descendants  could  complete  the  work  ;  and  yet  they 
quietly  laid  the  foundation  stone,  and  calmly  placed  one  stone  upon 
another  until  death  called  them  from  the  work,  and  other  architects 
continued  that  work,  and  in  turn  were  laid  in  the  grave — all  in  un- 
shaken belief  in  the  eternity  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  all  equally 
assured  of  the  same  faith  in  the  generations  to  come,  who  would 
build  on  where  they  had  ceased  to  labour. 

It  was  the  faith  of  the  age,  and  the  old  architects  lived  and  sank 
to  sleep  in  this  faith.  Now,  they  lie  before  the  doors  of  their  antique 
churches,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  their  slumbers  may  be  sound, 
and  that  they  may  not  be  awakened  by  the  laughter  of  the  later  age. 
And  it  would  be  a  sad  thing  for  them — particularly  for  those  who 
are  buried  near  old  unfinished  cathedrals — should  they  suddenly  re- 
vive some  night,  and  gaze  by  the  cold  sad  moonlight  on  their  un- 
finished day's  work,  and  find  that  the  time  for  finishing  them  had 
passed  away,  and  that  their  whole  life  had  been  spent  in  vain. 

Such  is  the  voice  of  our  own  age,  which  has  other  problems  and 
another  faith. 

I  once,  in  Cologne,  heard  a  little  boy  ask  his  mother  why  they  did 
not  finish  the  hall-built  cathedral.  He  was  a  pretty  child,  and  I 
kissed  his  bright  intelligent  eyes  ;  and,  as  his  mother  could  give  no 
answer  to  the  question,  I  told  him  that  now-a-days  people  had  alto- 
gether different  things  to  do. 

On  the  summit  of  the  Apennines,  not  far  from  Genoa,  we  behold 
the  sea ;  between  the  green  mountain  peaks  we  catch  glimpses  of  its 
blue  waters,  and  ships  which  come  forth  here  and  there  seem  to  sail 
strangely  over  the  mountains.  If  we  see  this  view  during  twilight, 
when  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  begin  playing  a  wondrous  game  with 
the  earliest  shades  of  evening,  and  when  all  hues  and  shapes  twine 
dreamily  together, — then  a  feeling  as  of  old  legends,  steals  over  the 


—   297  — 


mind,  the  coach  rolls  along,  the  sweetest  dreamiest  shadows  of  the 
soul  are  revived,  they  tenderly  greet,  until  at  last  in  a  vision  we  seem 
to  be  in  Genoa. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

This  city  is  old  without  antiquity,  narrow  without  home-like  snug- 
ness,  and  ugly  beyond  description.  It  is  built  on  a  rock,  at  the  foot 
of  amphitheatre-like  hills,  which  hold  in  their  embrace  the  loveliest 
bosom  of  the  sea.  The  Genoese  have  consequently  from  nature  one 
of  the  best  and  securest  of  harbours.  And,  as  the  whole  town 
stands  on  a  single  rock,  the  houses  must,  for  the  sake  of  room,  be 
built  very  high,  while  the  streets  are  very  narrow,  so  that  the  latter 
are  very  dark  and  close,  only  two  of  them  admitting  carriages.  But 
the  houses  are  chiefly  used  by  their  inhabitants,  who  are  principally 
merchants,  as  storehouses,  and  as  sleeping  places  by  night.  During 
the  whole  trafficking  day,  they  run  about  town  or  sit  before  their 
house-doors — I  should  say,  within  their  house-doors — otherwise  oppo- 
site neighbours  would  knock  their  knees  together. 

Seen  from  the  sea-side,  especially  towards  evening,  the  whole  town 
gains  in  appearance.  It  lies  there  on  the  shore  like  the  bleached 
skeleton  of  some  castaway  monstrous  beast,  dark  ants  which  call 
themselves  Genoese  creep  over  it,  blue  waves  dash  it  with  foam, 
humming  a  lullaby,  and  the  moon,  the  pale  eye  of  night,  looks  down 
on  it  with  sorrow. 

In  the  garden  of  the  Palazzo  Doria  the  old  sea-hero  stands  like  a 
Neptune  in  a  water-basin.  But  the  statue  is  forlorn  and  mutilated, 
the  fountain  is  dry,  and  sea-mews  nestle  amid  the  dark  cypresses. 
Like  a  boy  always  thinking  of  play,  I  was  at  once  reminded  by  the 
name  of  Doria,  of  that  of  Frederic  Schiller,  the  noblest,  if  not  the 
greatest,  of  our  German  poets. 

Though  mostly  in  decay,  the  palaces  of  the  once  powerful  lords  of 
Genoa,  the  nobili,  are  still  very  beautiful,  displaying  an  excess  of 
magnificence.  They  are  nearly  all  situated  on  the  two  great  streets 
known  as  the  Strada  nuova  and  Balbi.  Of  these  palaces,  the  Du- 
razzo  is  the  most  remarkable.  Here  are  many  good  pictures,  among 
them  Paul  Veronese's  Mary  Magdalene  washing  the  feet  of 
Christ.  The  Mary  is  so  beautiful  that  were  she  alive  she  would  be 
in  danger  of  a  second  seduction.    I  stood  a  long  time  before  her — 


—    298  — 

but  ah  !  sho  did  not  look  up.  Christ  stands  there  like  a  pious 
Hamlet — "  Go  to  a  nunnery  !"  Here  I  also  found  excellent  Dutch 
paintings,  and  splendid  works  by  Rubens — the  latter  inspired  to  the 
fullest  extent  by  the  colossal  geniality  of  the  Netherlandish  Titan, 
whose  spirit-wings  were  so  powerful  that  he  would  have  soared  to 
the  sun,  though  a  hundred  tons  of  Dutch  cheese  had  been  tied  to  his 
legs.  I  cannot  pass  the  smallest  painting  by  this  master  without 
paying  my  tribute  of  admiration  ;  and  all  the  more  because  it  is  now 
the  fashion  to  glance  at  him  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder,  on  account 
of  his  lack  of  ideality.  The  historical  school  of  Munich  spreads 
itself  with  peculiar  magnificence  in  this  sort  of  criticism.  With 
what  high-flown  depreciation  do  the  long-haired  disciples  of  Corne- 
lius wander  through  the  Rubens'  Hall !  But  perhaps  their  error 
is  more  intelligible  when  we  reflect  on  the  great  contrast  which 
Peter  Cornelius  himself  forms  to  Peter  Paul  Rubens.  No  greater 
opposites  can  be  imagined — and  yet,  with  all  this,  a  notion  occasion- 
ally comes  into  my  head  that  there  are  points  of  affinity  between 
them,  which  I  rather  surmise  than  understand.  Perhaps  there  aro 
peculiarities  of  their  northern  country  hidden  in  them,  which  pro- 
claim themselves  to  a  third  fellow-countryman — that  is,  to  myself — 
like  soft  secret  whispers.  But  this  secret  affinity  does  not  consist  of 
the  Netherlandish  joyousncss  and  sprightliness  of  colour  which  laughs 
from  all  the  pictures  of  Rubens,  so  that  we  might  almost  believe 
that  he  had  painted  them  in  a  glorious  Rhine  wine  carouse,  while 
dancing  fair-music  rang  and  piped  around.  Truly  the  pictures  of 
Kornelius  seem,  on  the  contrary,  to  have  been  painted  on  Good 
Friday,  while  the  doleful  songs  of  the  processions  swept  through  the 
street,  and  re-echoed  in  the  atelier  and  in  the  heart  of  the  painter. 
In  productiveness,  in  boldness  of  conception,  in  genial  originality, 
both  are  alike,  both  are  born  painters,  and  belong  to  the  cycle  of 
great  masters  who  for  the  most  part  flourished  in  the  time  of 
Raphael — an  age  which  was  still  capable  of  exercising  a  direct  influ- 
ence on  Rubens,  but  which  is  so  utterly  removed  from  our  own  that 
we  are  almost  terrified  by  the  appearance  of  Cornelius,  for  he  seems 
to  us  like  the  ghost  of  one  of  those  great  artists  of  Raphael's  time 
who  has  risen  from  the  grave  to  paint  more  pictures — a  dead  creator, 
self-conjured  by  the  indwelling  word  of  life  which  was  buried  with 
him.  If  we  study  his  pictures,  they  gaze  on  us  as  with  eyes  of  the 
fifteenth  century  ;  their  garments  are  ghost-like  as  though  they  rustled 
past  in  midnight ;  the  bodies  are  strong  with  magic  power,  drawn 
with  dream-like  accuracy,  powerfully  true,  only  they  want  blood, 


—    299  — 

throbbing  life  and  colour.  Yes,  Cornelius  is  a  creator,  but  if  we 
look  at  his  creations  it  seems  to  us  as  though  they  could  not  live 
long — as  though  they  were  all  painted  a  few  hours  before  death — as 
though  they  all  were  prophetic  signs  of  approaching  dissolution. 
Despite  their  hearty  geniality,  the  paintings  of  Rubens  awaken  in  us 
a  similar  feeling — they  also  seem  to  bear  within  them  the  germ  of 
death,  and  a  feeling  comes  over  us  that  notwithstanding  their  super- 
abundance of  life  and  their  fulness  of  red  blood,  they  must  suddenly 
be  struck  down.  This  is  perhaps  the  secret  of  that  affinity  which  we 
so  strangely  feel  when  comparing  these  masters.  The  excess  of 
pleasure  in  certain  pictures  by  Rubens,  and  the  infinite  sorrow  in 
others  by  Cornelius,  awake  in  us  perhaps  the  same  emotions.  But 
whence  comes  this  sorrow  in  a  Dutchman  ?  It  is  perhaps  the  terri- 
ble consciousness  that  he  belongs  to  an  age  long  passed  away,  and 
that  his  life  is  a  mystical  reappearance — for  oh  !  he  is  not  merely  the 
only  great  artist  who  now  paints,  but,  it  may  be,  the  only  great  one 
who  ever  will  paint.  Before  him,  to  the  time  of  the  Caracci,  is  a 
long  darkness,  and  after  him  the  shadows  again  close  together ;  his 
hand  is  a  bright,  solitary  spirit-hand  in  the  night  of  Art,  and  the 
pictures  which  it  paints  bear  the  unearthly  confidence  of  such  an 
earnest,  rugged  seclusion.  I  have  never  looked  at  this  hand  of  the 
Last  of  the  Painters,  without  a  secret  shudder  when  I  gazed  on  the 
man  himself,  the  little  sharp  man  with  glowing  eyes  ;  and  yet  that 
hand  has  awakened  in  me  feelings  of  the  warmest  piety  when  I  have 
remembered  that  it  once  rested  lovingly  on  my  little  fingers,  and 
aided  me  to  design  outlines  of  faces,  when  I,  a  little  boy,  was  learn- 
ing to  draw  in  the  academy  in  Düsseldorf. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

I  cannot  leave  unmentioned  the  collection  of  portraits  of  beautiful 
Genoese  women,  exhibited  in  the  Palace  Durazzo.  Nothing  in  the 
world  inspires  the  soul  with  such  melancholy  as  the  sight  of  portraits 
of  fair  ladies  who  have  been  dead  for  centuries.  Sadness  steals  over 
the  soul  when  we  reflect  that,  of  all  the  originals  of  those  pictures, 
of  all  the  beauties  who  were  so  lovely,  so  coquettish,  so  witty,  so 
roguish,  and  so  dreamy — of  all  those  May  heads  with  April  moods — 
of  that  spring-tide  of  ladies — nothing  now  remains  but  these  many- 
coloured  shadows,  which  some  artist,  who  like  them  has  long  been 


—    300  — 


dead,  has  painted  on  a  perishable  canvas,  which,  like  the  originals, 
must  pass  away,  in  time,  to  decay  and  dust.  And  so  all  life  passes 
away — the  beautiful  as  well  as  the  hideous — without  leaving  a  trace. 
Death,  the  dry  pedant,  spares  the  rose  as  little  as  the  thistle  ;  he  for- 
gets not  a  lonely  straw  in  the  most  remote  wilderness  ;  he  thoroughly 
and  incessantly  destroys ;  everywhere  we  behold  him  treading  into 
dust  plants  and  animals,  mankind  and  their  works,  and  even  those 
Egyptian  pyramids,  which  seem  to  defy  his  annihilating  rage,  are  only 
trophies  of  his  power,  monuments  of  all  long  passed  away,  primeval 
royal  graves. 

But  sadder  far  than  this  idea  of  an  endless  dying,  and  of  a  desolate 
yawning  annihilation,  is  the  thought  that  we  do  not  even  perish  as 
originals,  but  as  copies  of  long-vanished  mortals  who  were  spiritually 
and  bodily  like  us,  and  that,  after  us,  men  will  again  be  born,  who 
will  in  turn  see,  and  feel,  and  think  like  us,  and  be  again  in  turn 
annihilated  by  Death  : — a  comfortless,  endless  game  of  reproduction, 
wherein  the  prolific  earth  must  constantly  be  bringing  forth  more 
than  Death  can  destroy,  so  that  she,  in  her  need,  must  give  more  heed 
to  the  maintenance  of  the  species  than  to  the  originality  of  the  indi- 
vidual. 

Strangely  was  I  thrilled  by  the  mystical  terror  of  this  thought, 
when  I,  in  the  Durazzo  palace,  gazed  upon  the  portraits  of  the  lovely 
Genoese  ladies,  and,  among  them,  on  a  picture  which  awoke  in  my 
soul  a  sweet  storm,  which  even  yet,  when  I  recall  it,  causes  my  eye- 
lashes to  tremble. — It  was  the  picture  of  the  dead  Maria. 

The  guardian  of  the  gallery  believed,  indeed,  that  the  picture  was 
that  of  a  Duchess  of  Genoa,  and  in  the  cicerone  tone  began  to  tell 
that  "  it  was  painted  by  Giorgio  Barbarelli  de  Castelfranco  nel 
Trevigiano,  commonly  known  as  Giorgione.  He  was  one  of  the 
greatest  painters  of  the  Venetian  school — was  born  in  the  year  1477, 
and  died  in  the  year  1511." 

"  That  will  do,  Signor  Custode.  The  likeness  is  caught  exactly, 
although  it  was  painted  a  few  centuries  too  early.  Drawing  accurate, 
style  of  colour  excellent- — why,  the  folds  of  drapery  on  the  breast  are 
admirable.  Be  so  kind  as  to  take  the  picture  down  from  the  wall — 
I  will  only  blow  away  the  dust  from  the  lips  and  brush  away  the  spi- 
der which  lurks  in  a  corner  of  the  frame.- — Maria  was  always  so 
much  afraid  of  spiders." 

"  Excellenza  appears  to  be  a  connoisseur." 

"  If  so,  I  did  not  know  it,  Signor  Custode.  I  have  the  talent  of 
being  singularly  moved  when  I  behold  certain  pictures,  and  then  my 


—    301  — 


eyes  water.    But  what  do  I  see  !    Whose  portrait  is  that  of  the  man 
in  the  black  cloak  hanging  yonder?" 
"  Also  by  Giorgione, — a  master-piece." 

M  Signor,  I  beg  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  this  picture,  too,  from  the 
wall  and  hold  it  near  the  mirror,  that  I  may  see  if  I  resemble  it !" 

"  Your  Excellency  is  not  so  pale.  The  picture  is  a  master-piece 
by  Giorgione,  the  rival  of  Titian.  He  was  born  in  1477,  and  died  in 
the  year  L511." 

Dear  reader,  I  much  prefer  Giorgione  to  Titian,  and  am  especially 
obliged  to  him  for  painting  Maria  for  me.  And  it  must  also  be  evi- 
dent to  you  that  Giorgione  painted  that  other  portrait  for  me,  and 
not  for  some  old  Genoese.  And  it  is  very  like — death-silent  like ; 
it  even  has  the  sorrow  in  the  glance — a  sorrow  which  belongs  rather 
to  an  imagined  pain  than  to  one  which  has  been  experienced — and 
one  which  is  very  hard  to  paint.  The  whole  picture  seems  to  have 
been  sighed  upon  canvas.  Even  the  man  in  the  black  mantle  is  well 
painted,  and  the  maliciously  sentimental  lips  are  like  life — speakingly 
so,  as  though  they  were  just  about  to  tell  a  story — the  story  of  the 
knight  who  fain  would  kiss  his  ladye-love  to  life,  and  as  the  light  was 
blown  out  


—    302  — 
% 

THE  BATHS  OF  LUCCA. 

u  I  am  as  woman  is  to  man" 

Count  August  von  Platen  Hallermundk. 

"  Would  the  Count  like  a  dance, 
Let  him  but  say  so, 
I'll  play  him  a  tune." 

Figaro. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"When  I  sought  Matilda  in  her  chamber,  she  had  just  fastened 
the  last  button  of  her  green  riding-habit,  and  was  putting  on  a 
chapeau  with  a  white  plume.  She  hastily  cast  it  down,  as  soon  as 
she  saw  me,  and  ran  to  me  with  all  her  waving,  golden  locks. 
"  Doctor,  heaven  and  earth !"  she  cried,  and  according  to  her  old 
custom  she  caught  me  by  the  ears  and  kissed  me  with  the  drollest 
heartiness. 

"  How  are  you,  maddest  of  mortal  men  !  How  glad  I  am  to  see 
you  again !  For  never  in  this  world  shall  I  find  a  crazier  soul. 
There  are  fools  and  blockheads  in  plenty,  and  people  often  do  them 
the  honour  to  consider  them  crazy,  but  real  insanity  is  as  scarce  as 
real  wisdom — perhaps  it  is  "nothing  but  wisdom  which  is  vexed  to 
think  that  it  knows  everything — all  the  infamy  of  this  would — and 
has  consequently  come  to  the  wise  conclusion  to  go  mad.  The  Ori- 
entals are  a  shrewder  race,  they  honour  a  maniac  as  a  prophet,  but 
we  look  upon  prophets  as  maniacs." 

"  But,  my  Lady,  why  have  you  not  written  to  me  ?" 

"  Surely,  Doctor,  I  wrote  you  a  long  letter,  and  directed  it  to 
'New  Bedlam.'  But  as  you,  contrary  to  all  expectation,  were  not 
there,  they  sent  it  to  St.  Luke,  and  as  you  were  not  there  either,  it 
went  to  another  establishment  of  the  same  sort,  and  so  it  went  the 
rounds  of  all  the  lunatic  asylums  in  England,  Scotland  and  Ireland, 
until  they  returned  it  to  me  with  the  remark,  that  the  gentleman  to 
whom  the  letter  was  addressed  was  not  as  yet  caught.  And  how 
under  the  sun  have  you  contrived  to  keep  at  liberty  Y ' 


—    303  — 

"Ah,  I  did  it  cunningly,  my  Lady.  Wherever  I  went  I  contrived 
to  slip  away  from  the  madhouses,  and  I  think  that  I  shall  succeed  in 
Italy  too." 

"  Oh,  friend,  here  you  are  safe  enough,  for  in  the  first  place  there 
ia  no  madhouse  in  the  neighbourhood,  and,  secondly,  we  are  here  in 
the  majority." 

"  We?  My  Lady!  You  count  yourself  then  as  one  of  us?  Per- 
mit me  to  imprint  the  kiss  of  brotherhood  upon  your  brow." 

"Ah!  I  mean  we  watering-place  guests,  among  whom  I  am  really 
the  most  rational.  And  so  you  can  easily  imagine  who  the  maddest 
must  be,  I  mean  Julia  Maxfield,  who  always  maintains  that  green 
eyes  signify  the  spring  of  the  soul ;  and  besides  we  have  two  young 
beauties" — 

"  English  beauties,  of  course,  my  Lady" — 

"  Doctor — what  does  this  mocking  tone  mean  ?  The  yellow,  greasy 
maccaroni  faces  in  Italy  must  suit  your  taste,  if  you  have  no  fancy 
now  for  British" — 

"  Plum-puddings  with  raisin-eyes,  roast-beef  bosoms  festooned  with 
white  strips  of  horseradish,  proud  pies" — 

"  There  was  a  time,  Doctor,  when  you  were  enchanted  if  a  lovely 
English  woman" — 

"  Yes,  but  that  was  once  !  I  always  have  a  proper  reverence  for 
your  fellow-country-women — they  are  bright  as  suns — but  suns  of 
ice :  they  are  white  as  marble,  but  are  also  marble  cold — on  their 
bosoms  are  frozen  the  poor" — 

"  Oho  ! — I  know  one  who  did  not  freeze  there,  but  who  jumped 
fresh  and  alive  over  the  sea,  and  he  was  a  great  German  imper- 
tinent"— 

"  At  least  he  got  such  a  cold  on  that  British  frosty  heart  that  he 
still  has  a  cold  in  his  head  in  consequence." 

My  Lady  seemed  vexed  at  this  answer,  she  grasped  the  riding-whip 
which  lay  between  the  leaves  of  a  novel  as  a  book-marker,  switched 
it  around  the  ears  of  her  great  white  hound,  who  slowly  growled, 
hastily  clapped  her  hat  jauntily  on  her  locks,  looked  once  or  twice 
with  approbation  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and  said  proudly,  "  I  am 
still  beautiful !"  But  then,  all  at  once,  as  if  penetrated  by  a  gloomy 
thrill  of  pain,  she  remained  silent,  musing,  slowly  drew  the  long 
white  riding-glove  from  her  hand,  held  the  hand  out  to  me,  and  read- 
ing my  thoughts  like  lightning,  said  :  "  This  hand  is  not  as  beautiful 
as  it  was  in  Ramsgatc — ha  ?  Since  that  time  Matilda  has  suffered 
— much !" 


—    304  — 


Dear  reader,  we  can  seldom  see  a  flaw  in  a  bell — we  must  hear  its 
ring  to  know  if  it  exists.  Could  you  have  heard  the  ring  of  the 
voice  wherewith  those  words  were  spoken,  you  would  have  felt  at 
once  that  my  Lady's  heart  was  a  bell  of  the  best  metal,  but  that  a 
secret  flaw  strangely  mingled  a  discord  with  its  sweetest  tones,  and 
gave  it  an  air  of  strange  sadness.  Yet  I  love  such  bells,  they  ever 
find  a  true  echo  in  my  own  breast,  and  I  again  kissed  my  Lady's 
hand,  almost  as  earnestly  as  of  old,  though  it  was  no  longer  in  its 
first  bloom,  and  the  veins  which  rose  from  it,  almost  all  too  blue, 
seemed  to  repeat,  "  since  that  time  Matilda  has  suffered — much." 

Her  eyes  gazed  on  me  like  sorrowful  solitary  stars  in  the  autumnal 
heaven,  and  she  said,  softly  and  sadly,  from  her  inmost  soul :  "  You 
seem  to  love  me  less,  now,  Doctor  !  For  that  was  a  tear  of  pity 
which  you  just  wept  on  my  hand.    It  seemed  like  an  alms." 

"  Who  taught  you  to  interpret  so  unkindly  the  silent  language  of 
my  tears  ?  I'll  bet  that  your  white  hound  there  who  fawns  on  you, 
understands  me  better.  He  looks  first  at  me  and  then  at  you,  and 
seems  to  be  wondering  that  human  beings,  those  proud  lords  of  cre- 
ation, are  internally  so  wretched.  Ah!  my  Lady,  only  a  sympa- 
thetic sorrow  draws  forth  such  tears — in  reality  we  each  weep  for 
ourselves." 

"  Enough,  enough,  Doctor.  It  is  good  at  any  rate  that  we  are  co- 
temporaries,  and  that  we  meet  again  with  our  foolish  tears  in  the 
same  corner  of  the  earth.  Oh  our  bad  luck  !  if  you  had  only  lived 
two  centuries  earlier,  when  I  was  getting  on  so  well  with  my  friend, 
Michael  de  Cervantes  Saavedra,  or  rather  if  you  had  only  been 
born  a  hundred  years  later,  as  another  intimate  friend  of  mine,  whose 
name  I  don't  just  now  happen  to  know,  because  his  first  birthday 
won't  be  celebrated  until  the  year  1900. — But  tell  me  how  you've 
been  getting  on  since  we  parted." 

"  At  the  old  business,  my  Lady — rolling  the  great  stone.  When 
I  had  shoved  it  to  the  top  of  the  hill  then  it  rolled  all  at  once  down 
again,  and  I  had  to  go  at  it  once  more ;  and  this  up  and  down  hill 
work  lasted  until  at  last  I  lie  crouched  beneath  it,  and  Master 
Steinmetz  has  carved  on  it  with  great  letters :  '  Here  rests  in  the 
Lord'  " — 

"  By  my  soul,  Doctor,  I'll  bring  you  to  life  again.  Don't  you  dare 
to  be  melancholy  !    Laugh,  or" — 

"  No — don't  tickle  me.    I'd  rather  laugh  of  myself!" 

"  That's  right.  Now  you  please  me,  just  as  you  did  in  Ramsgate, 
where  we  first  became  so  intimate" — 


—    305  — 

"  And  finally  a  little  more  than  intimate.    Yes — I  will  be  merry. 

It  is  fortunate  that  we  have  met,  and  the  great  German  will 

again  find  his  greatest  pleasure  in  risking  his  life  near  you." 

My  Lady's  eyes  laughed  like  sunshine  after  a  soft  rain,  and  her 
merry  mood  again  flashed  out  as  John  entered,  and  with  the  stiffest 
flunkey  pathos  announced  his  Excellency,  the  Marquis  Christophero 
di  Gumpelino. 

"  He's  welcome  !  And  now,  Doctor,  you  will  become  acquainted 
with  a  peer  of  the  realm  of  fools.  Don't  be  shocked  at  his  personal 
appearance,  particularly  at  his  nose.  The  man  has  excellent  quali- 
ties ;  for  instance,  a  great  deal  of  money,  common  sense,  and  the  de- 
sire to  embody  in  himself  all  the  follies  of  the  age ;  moreover,  he  is 
in  love  with  my  green-eyed  friend,  Julia  Maxfield,  and  calls  her  his 
Julia  and  himself  her  Romeo,  and  declaims  and  sighs ;  and  Lord 
Maxfield,  the  brother-in-law  to  whom  the  faithful  Julia  has  been 
entrusted  by  her  husband,  is  an  Argus" — 

I  was  just  about  to  remark  that  Argus  had  charge  of  a  cow.  when 
the  door  opened,  and,  to  my  utmost  amazement,  in  waddled  my  old 
friend,  the  Banker  Christian  Gumpel,  with  his  opulent  smile  and 
blessed  belly.  After  his  broad  shining  lips  had  sufficiently  scoured 
my  Lady's  hand,  and  delivered  themselves  of  the  usual  questions  as 

to  health,  &c,  he  recognised  me  and  the  friends  sank  into  each 

other's  arms. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Matilda's  warning  not  to  be  struck  by  Gumpelino's  nose,  had 
some  foundation  in  fact,  for  he  came  within  an  ace  of  knocking  out 
one  of  my  eyes  with  it.  I  will  say  nothing  against  this  nose  ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  was  one  of  the  noblest  form,  and  seemed  of  itself  to  give 
my  friend  full  right  to  claim,  at  least,  the  title  of  a  Marquis.  For 
it  was  evident  from  the  nose  that  Gumpel  was  of  high  nobility,  and 
that  he  descended  from  that  very  ancient  world-family  into  which  the 
blessed  Lord  himself  once  married  without  fear  of  a  mesalliance. 
Since  those  days,  it  is  true  that  the  family  has  come  down  a  little, 
and,  in  fact,  since  the  reign  of  Charlemagne  they  have  been  obliged 
to  pick  up  a  living  by  selling  old  pantaloons  and  lottery  tickets,  but 
without  diminishing  in  the  least  their  pride  of  ancestry,  or  losing  the 
hope  that  some  day  they  will  all  come  again  into  their  long  lost  pro- 

2G* 


—    306  — 


perty,  or  at  least  obtain  emigration-damages,  with  interest,  when 
their  old  legitimate  sovereign  keeps  the  promises  made  when  restored 
to  office — promises  by  which  he  has  been  leading  them  about  by  the 
nose  for  two  thousand  years.  Perhaps  this  leading  them  about  by 
the  nose  is  the  cause  why  the  latter  has  been  pulled  out  to  such  a 
length !  Or  it  may  be  that  these  long  noses  are  a  sort  of  uniform 
whereby  J ehovah  recognises  his  old  body  guards  even  when  they  have 
deserted.  Such  a  deserter  was  the  Marquis  Gumpelixo,  but  he  always 
wore  his  uniform,  and  a  brilliant  one  it  was,  sprinkled  with  crosses 
and  stars  of  rubies,  a  red  eagle  order  in  miniature  and  other  deco- 
rations. 

"Look  !"  said  my  Lady,  "  that  is  my  favourite  nose,  and  I  know  of 
no  more  beautiful  flower  in  all  the  world." 

"  This  flower,"  grinned  Gumpelixo,  "  cannot  be  placed  on  your 
fair  bosom,  unless  I  lay  my  blooming  face  there  also,  and  such  an 
addition  might  trouble  you  in  this  warm  weather.  But,  I  bring 
you  an  equally  precious  flower,  which  is  here  very  rare." 

Saying  this  the  Marquis  opened  a  tissue  paper  horn,  which  he  had 
brought  with  him,  and  with  great  care  slowly  extracted  from  it  a 
magnificent  tulip. 

Scarcely  had  my  Lady  seen  the  flower,  ere  she  screamed  with  all 
her  might.  "  Murder  !  murder  !  wTould  you  murder  me  ?  Away  with 
the  horrible  vision  !"  With  this  she  acted  as  if  about  to  be  mur- 
dered, held  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  ran  madly  about  the  room, 
invoked  maledictions  on  Gumpelixo's  nose  and  tulip,  rang  the  bell, 
stamped  on  the  ground,  struck  the  hound  with  her  riding  switch  till 
he  bayed  aloud,  and  as  Johx  entered,  she  cried  aloud,  like  K  ean,  in 
Bjchakd  III. — 

"  A  horse!  a  horse! 
My  kingdom  for  ii  horse !" 

and  stormed  like  a  whirlwind  from  the  room. 

A.  queer  woman  !"  said  Gumpelixo,  motionless  with  astonishment 
and  still  holding  the  tulip  in  his  hand,  so  that  he  looked  like  one  of 
those  lotus-bearing,  fat  idols  carved  on  antique  Indian  temples.  But 
I  understood  the  Lady  and  her  idiosyncracy  far  better  than  he,  and 
opening  the  window,  I  cried  :  "  My  Lady,  how  you  act !  Is  this  sense 
— propriety — especially  is  it  love  ?" 
Up  laughed  the  wild  answer  : 

"  When  I  am  o'  horseback,  I  will  swear 
I  lore  thee  in  finitely." 


—   307  — 


CHAPTER  III. 

'A  curious  woman  !"  repeated  Gumpelino,  as  we  went  our  way  to 
visit  his  two  lady  friends,  Signora  Letitia  and  Signora  Francesca, 
whose  acquaintance  he  promised  me.  As  the  dwelling  of  these 
ladies  was  situated  on  a  somewhat  distant  eminence,  I  appreciated 
all  the  more  this  kindness  of  my  corpulent  friend,  who  found  hill- 
climbing  somewhat  difficult,  and  who  stopped  on  every  little  mound 
to  recover  his  breath,  and  sigh,  "  0  Jesu  !" 

The  dwellings  at  the  baths  of  Lucca  are  situated  either  below  in  a 
village  surrounded  by  high  hills,  or  are  placed  on  one  of  these  hills 
itself,  not  far  from  the  principal  spring,  where  a  picturesque  group 
of  houses  peeps  down  into  the  charming  dale.  But  many  are  scat- 
tered here  and  there  on  the  sides  of  the  hill,  and  are  attainable  only 
by  a  wearisome  climb  through  vines,  myrtle  bushes,  honeysuckles, 
laurels,  oleanders,  geraniums  and  a  wilderness  of  similar  high-born 
plants.  I  have  never  seen  a  lovelier  valley,  particularly  when  one 
looks  from  the  terrace  of  the  upper  bath,  where  the  solemn  green 
cypresses,  stand  down  into  the  village.  We  there  see  a  bridge  bend- 
ing over  a  stream  called  the  Lima,  and  which  cuts  the  village  in  two. 
At  its  either  end  there  are  waterfalls  leaping  over  rocky  fragments 
with  a  roar,  as  though  they  would  fain  utter  the  pleasantest  things 
but  could  not  express  themselves  distinctly  on  account  of  the  roar- 
ing echo. 

The  great  charm  of  the  valley  is  owing  to  the  circumstance  that 
it  is  neither  too  great  nor  too  small — that  the  soul  of  the  beholder 
is  not  forcibly  elevated,  but  rather  calmly  and'  gradually  inspired 
with  the  glorious  view  ;  that  the  summits  of*  the  mountains  them- 
selves, true  to  their  Appennine  nature,  are  not  magnificently  mis- 
shapen in  extravagant  Gothic  form,  like  rocky  caricatures,  just  as 
the  men  in  German  lando  on  them  are  human  caricatures  ;  but  so 
that  their  nobly  rounded,  cheerful  green  forms  seem  of  themselves 
inspired  with  the  civilization  of  art,  and  accord  melodiously  with  the 
blue  heaven. 

"  0  Jesu  I"  sighed  Gumpelino,  as  we,  weary  with  climbing,  and  a 
little  too  well  warmed  with  the  morning  sun,  attained  the  above 
mentioned  cypresses,  and  gazing  down  into  the  village,  saw  our 
English  lady  friend  sweeping  proudly  along  on  her  steed  over  the 
bridge,  like  the  queen  in  a  fairy  legend,  and  then  vanish,  swift  as  a 


—    303  — 


dream.  "  0  Jesu  !  what  a  curious  woman  !  In  all  my  born  days 
I  never  did  see  such  a  woman.  Only  in  plays — don't  you  think  the 
actress  Holzbeciier  could  play  her  part  well  ?  There's  something 
of  the  water-witch  about  her — hey  ?" 

"  You're  right,  Gumpelixo.  When  I  went  with  her  from  London 
to  Rotterdam,  the  captaiu  compared  her  to  a  rose  sprinkled  with 
pepper.  Out  of  gratitude  for  this  spicy  comparison,  she  emptied  a 
whole  box  of  pepper  in  his  hair  as  he  lay  asleep  in  the  cabin.  Nobody 
could  come  near  the  man  without  sneezing." 

14  A  curious  woman  !"  quoth  Gumpelino  once  again.  "  Delicate 
as  white  silk  but  every  bit  as  strong — and  she  rides  horseback  as 
well  as  L  I  only  hope  she  wont  ride  herself  out  of  health.  There 
— did  you  see  that  long  lean  Englishman  on  his  lean  horse,  racing 
after  her  like  a  galloping  consumption  ?  Those  English  people  ride 
too  outrageously — why.  they'd  spend  all  the  money  in  the  world  on 
horses.  Lady  Maxfield's  white  horse  cost  three  hundred  golden 
live  louis  d'ors — ah  ! — and  louis  d'ors  are  at  such  a  premium  now,  and 
keep  rising  every  day  !" 

"Yes — the  louis  d'ors  will  end  by  rising  so  high,  that  a  poor 
scholar  like  myself  will  never  be  able  to  reach  them." 

"  You  can't  have  an  idea,  Doctor,  of  how  much  money  I  have  to 
spend,  and  yet  I  keep  only  one  attend aut,  and  only  when  I  am  in 
Rome  hire  a  chaplain  for  my  private  chapel.  Look — there  cornea 
my  Hyacinth  !" 

The  little  figure  who  at  this  instant  appeared,  approaching  us 
from  behind  the  turn  of  a  hill,  reminded  me  more  of  a  "  burning 
bush''  than  a  hyacinth.  It  appeared  like  a  waddling  great  scarlet 
coat,  overloaded  with  gold  embroidery,  which  flashed  in  the  sunrays, 
aud  above  this  red  splendor  sweated  a  little  face  well  known  to  me  of 
old.  aud  which  gaily  nodded  to  me.  And  in  fact  when  I  saw  the 
sallow  cautious  face  and  the  busy  winking  eyes,  I  recognized  a  coun- 
tenance which  I  should  sooner  have  expected  to  see  on  Mount  Sinai 
than  on  the  Appenines — and  that  was  the  face  of  Herr  Hirsch, 
citizen  of  Hamburg,  a  man  who  was  not  only  a  very  honorable  lottery 
agent,  but  one  who  was  also  learned  in  hard  and  soft  corns  and  in 
jewels,  inasmuch  as  he  not  only  knew  the  difference  between  them, 
but  had  skill  in  curing  the  former,  and  in  putting  a  good  round  price 
on  the  latter. 

"  I  do  hope,"  he  said,  as  he  approached,  "  that  you  haven't  forgot 
me.  though  my  name  ain't  Hirsch  now.    I'm  called  Hyactkth,  and 

I'm  servant  of  Herr  Gi  mpel." 


—    309  — 


"  Hyacinth  !"  cried  his  master,  in  raging  amazement  at  this  indis- 
cretion of  his  servant. 

"  Oh  be  easy,  Herr  Gumpel,  or  Herr  Gumpetjno,  or  Herr  Marquis, 
or  your  Excellence  ;  we  needn't  put  ourselves  out  of  the  way  with 
this  here  gentleman.  He  knows  me ;  he's  bought  lots  of  lottery 
tickets  of  me  ;  by  the  way,  I  b'lieve  he  still  owes  me  seven  marks 
and  nine  schilling  on  the  last  drawing.  I  am  really  glad,  Doctor,  to 
meet  you  again.  You're  here,  I  s'pose  on  pleasure-business.  What 
else,  of  course,  can  a  man  be  doing  here  when  it's  so  hot,  a-climbing  up 
and  down  hill  ?  I'm  as  used  up  every  night  as  if  I'd  gone  twenty  times 
from  the  Altona  Gate  to  the  Stone  Gate  without  earning  a  copper." 

"  0  Jesu  " — cried  the  Marquis — "  hold  your  tongue  !  I'll  get  an- 
other servant — I  will." 

"  Why  hold  my  tongue  ?"  replied  Hirsch  Hyacinthus  ;  "  I  do  so 
love  to  get  a  chance  to  talk  good  German  with  one  whom  I've  known 
in  Hamburg,  and  when  I  think  of  Hamburg" — 

Here  at  the  memory  of.  his  bit  of  a  step-fatherland,  his  eyes 
gleamed  with  tears,  and  he  said,  sighing  as  he  spoke  :  "  What  is  Man  ? 
He  goes  walking  with  pleasure  out  of  the  Hamburg  Gate,  and  on 
the  Hamburg  Hill,  and  there  he  sees  the  sights,  the  lions,  the  birds, 
the  poll-parrots,*  the  monkeys,  the  great  folks,  and  he  takes  a  turn 
on  the  flying-horses,  or  gets  electrified,  and  then  thinks  how  jolly 
he'd  be  if  he  was  only  in  a  place  a  thousand  miles  off,  in  Italy,  where 
the  oranges  and  lemons  are  a-growing !  What  is  Man  ?  When  he's 
before  the  Altona  Gate  he  wants  to  be  in  Italy,  and  when  he's  in 
Italy,  he  wants  to  be  back  again  before  the  Altona  Gate.  Oh  !  I 
wish  I  was  a  standing  there  now,  looking  at  the  Michael's  steeple, 
and  the  big  clock  on  it  with  the  great  gold  figures — great  gold  figures 
— how  often  I've  looked  at  'em,  when  they  were  a- shining  so  jolly 
in  the  afternoon  sun,  till  I  felt  like  kissing  'em.  Now  I'm  in  Italy, 
where  the  lemons  and  oranges  grow,  and  when  I  see  'em  growing,  it 
puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Steinweg  in  Hamburg,  where  there's  lots  of 
'em  lying  in  great  heaping  piles  in  the  wheelbarrows,  and  where  a 
man  can  eat  and  eat  'em  to  his  heart's  content,  without  all  this  trou- 
ble of  going  up  hill  and  down,  and  getting  so  warm.  As  the  Lord 
may  have  mercy  on  me,  Herr  Marquis,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  honor  of 
the  situation,  and  the  genteel  edecation  I'm  getting,  cuss  me  if  I'd 
a-come  here  But  I  will  say  this  for  you,  Marquis,  that  in  your 
service  there's  both  honor  and  genteel  bringing  up  to  be  had,  and  no 
mistake." 

*  Fsvpagoyira — the  polly-theisis*    G<>yim  in  Hebrew  means  Geutiles. 


—    310  — 


"  Hyacinth  !"  said  Gumpelino,  who  had  been  somewhat  mollified 

by  this  flattery,  "  Hyacinth,  go  to" — 
"  Yes,  I  know" — 

"  I  say  you  don't  know,  Hyacinth." 

"And  /  say,  Herr  Gumpel,  I  do  know.  No  use  a-telling  me. 
Your  Excellency  was  a-going  to  say  that  I  must  go  to  Lady  Max 
field.  Sho !  I  know  all  your  thoughts  before  you've  thought  them, 
and  some  maybe  that  you  never  will  think  in  all  your  born  days. 
Such  a  servant  as  I  am  isn't  to  be  found  easy,  and  I  only  do  it  for 
the  honor  and  the  genteel  edecation,  and  it's  a  fact,  I  do  get  both  by 
you."  With  these  words,  he  wiped  his  face  with  a  very  clean  white 
handkerchief. 

"  Hyacinth,"  said  the  Marquis,  "  go  to  Lady  Julia  Maxfield — to 
my  Julia — and  give  her  this  tulip  ;  take  good  care  of  it,  for  it  cost 
five  paoli,  and  say  to  her" —  ♦ 

"  Yes,  I  know" — 

"  You  know  nothing.  Tell  her  that :  the  tulip  is  among  the 
flowers" — 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  you  want  to  say  something  to  her  with  this  here 
flower.  I've  made  up  such  mottoes  many  a  time  for  my  lottery 
tickets." 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  your  lottery  ticket  notions.  Go  to  Lady 
Maxfield,  and  say  to  her — 

"  The  tulip  is  among  the  flowers 

Like  among  cheeses  good  Strachino, 
But  more  than  cheese  and  more  than  flowers, 
Thou'rt  honored  hy  thy  Gumpelino." 

"  Now,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,  that's  first  rate  ;"  cried  Hyacinth. 
"  Oh !  you  needn't  be  a-nodding  to  me,  Herr  Marquis ;  what  you 
know,  I  know,  and  what  I  know,  you  know.  And  you,  Doctor,  good 
bye!  Never  mind  that  little  trifle  you  didn't  settle  with  me."  With 
these  words  he  descended  the  mountain,  and  as  he  went  I  could  hear 
him  murmur,  "  Gumpelino,  Strachino — Strachino,  Gumpelino." 

"  He's  an  honest  fellow,"  said  the  Marquis,  "  or  I  should  have  sent 
him  off  long  ago,  on  account  of  his  want  of  etiquette.  However 
before  you  it  isn't  of  much  consequence — you  understand  me.  How 
do  you  like  his  livery?  There's  thirty  dollars'  worth  of  gold  in  his 
livery,  more  than  there  is  on  Rothschild's  servants.  It  is  my 
greatest  delight  to  see  how  the  man  perfects  himself.  Now  and  then 
I  give  him  lessons  in  refinement  and  accomplishment  myself.  I  often 
say  to  him,  "  What  is  money  ?    Money  is  round  and  rolls  away,  but 


—    311  — 


culture  remains."  Yes,  Doctor,  if  I — which  the  Lord  forbid — should 
ever  lose  my  money,  I  still  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  I'm  a 
great  connoisseur  in  art — a  connoisseur  in  painting,  music  and  poetry. 
Yes,  sir.  Bind  my  eyes  tight,  and  lead  me  all  around  in  the  gallery 
of  Florence,  and  before  every  picture  I'll  tell  you  the  name  of  the 
painter  who  painted  it,  or  at  least  the  school  to  which  he  belongs. 
Jfttsic — Stop  up  my  ears,  and  I  can  hear  every  false  note.  Poetry — 
I  know  every  actress  in  Germany,  and  have  got  the  poets  all  by 
heart.  Yes,  sir,  and  Nature,  too.  I'm  great  on  nature.  I  travelled 
once  two  hundred  miles  in  Scotland— two  hundred  miles,  just  to  see 
one  single  hill !  Italy  surpasses  everything.  How  do  you  like  this 
landscape  here?  What  a  creation!  Just  look  at  the  trees,  the 
hills,  the  heaven,  and  the  water,  down  yonder  there — don't  it  all  look 
as  if  it  were  painted  ?  Did  you  ever  see  anything  of  the  kind  finer, 
even  in  the  theatre  ?  Why  a  man  gets  to  be  as  you  might  say,  a 
poet ;  verses  come  into  your  head,  and  you  don't  know  where  they 
come  from : 

"Silent,  as  the  veil  of  twilight  falls 
Rests  the  plain,  the  greenwood  silent  lies ; 
Save  where  near  me,  'mid  these  mouldering  walls 
The  cricket's  chirp  in  melancholy  cries." 

These  sublime  verses  were  declaimed  by  the  Marquis  with  thrilling 
pathos,  while  he  gazed  as  if  transfigured,  down  into  the  smiling  val- 
ley which  glowed  with  all  the  brightness  of  morning. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

As  I  once  one  fine  spring  day,  walked  "under  the  lindens"  in 
Berlin,  there  strolled  before  me  two  females,  who  were  for  a  long 
time  silent,  until  one  of  them  languishly  exclaimed,  "Ah,  them  green 
treeses  !"  To  which  the  other,  a  young  thing,  answered,  "  Mother, 
what  do  you  keer  for  them  green  treeses  ?" 

I  must  observe,  that  the  persons  of  whom  I  speak,  though  not 
clad  in  satin,  still  by  no  means  belonged  to  the  vulgar — who,  by  the 
way,  are  not  to  be  found  at  all  in  Berlin,  save  in  the  highest  circles. 
But  as  for  that  naive  question,  I  can  never  forget  it.  Wherever  I 
meet  with  affected  admiration  of  nature,  and  similar  verdant  lies,  it 
rises  laughing  in  my  soul.    And  during  the  declamation  of  the  Mar- 


—    312  — 

quis,  it  rang  out  loud  within  me — and  he,  reading  mockery  on  my 
lips,  exclaimed  as  if  vexed,  "  Don't  disturb  me  now — you  haven't  any 
soul  for  pure  simple  nature — you  are  a  morbid  soul,  so  to  speak — a 
Byron." 

Dear  reader — do  you  perhaps  belong  to  that  flock  of  pious  fowl 
who,  for  the  last  ten  years,  have  been  joining  in  that  song  of  "  By- 
ronic  morbidness,"  with  all  manner  of  whistling  and  screaky  piping, 
and  which  had  its  echo  in  the  skull  of  poor  Gumpel?  Ah  dear 
reader,  if  you  would  complain  of  morbidness  and  want  of  harmony 
and  division,  then  as  well  complain  that  the  world  itself  is  divided. 
For  as  the  heart  of  the  poet  is  the  central  point  of  the  world,  it 
must,  in  times  like  these  be  miserably  divided  and  torn.  He  who 
boasts  that  his  heart  has  remained  whole,  confesses  that  he  has  only 
a  prosaic  out-of-the-way  corner-heart.  But  the  great  world-wound 
passed  through  my  own  heart,  and  on  that  account  I  know  that  the 
great  Gods  have  highly  blessed  me  above  many  others,  and  held  me 
to  be  worthy  of  a  poet-martyrdom. 

Once  the  world  was  whole  and  sound — in  its  early  ages  and  in  its 
middle  ages,  despite  many  wild  battles,  it  had  still  an  unity,  and 
there  were  great  whole  poets.  We  may  honour  these  poets  and 
delight  ourselves  with  them,  but  every  imitation  of  their  wholeness 
is  a  lie, — a  lie  which  every  sound  eye  penetrates,  and  which  cannot 
escape  scorn.  Lately,  with  much  trouble,  I  obtained  in  Berlin  the 
writings  of  one  of  these  "perfect  poets"  who  so  bewailed  my  Byronic 
discordancy;  and  by  the  affected  verdancy,  the  delicate  appreciation 
of  nature,  which  breathed  like  fresh  hay  from  his  poems,  my  own 
poor  heart,  which  has  been  so  long  discordant,  well  nigh  burst  with 
laughter,  and  unthinkingly  I  cried :  "  My  dear  Herr  Intendant  Coun- 
cillor William  Neumann — what  do  you  care  for  them  green  treeses  ? 

"You  are  a  morbid,  discordant  soul — a  Byron," — quoth  the  Mar- 
quis, still  gazing,  as  if  enraptured  down  into  the  valley — clucking  at 
times  his  tongue  against  his  gums  in  sighing  admiration,  and  say- 
ing— "  Lord  !  Lord ! — every  thing  just  as  if  it  were  painted  !" 

Poor  Byron — such  a  calm  enjoyment  was  denied  to  thee.  Was 
thy  heart  so  ruined  that  thou  could'st  only  see,  yes,  and  even  des- 
cribe nature — but  wert  incapable  of  being  blessed  by  her?  Or 
was  Bysshe  Shelley  in  the  right  when  he  said  that  thou  had'st, 
Actoeon-like,  surprised  Nature  in  her  chaste  nakedness,  and  wert  on 
that  account  torn  by  her  hounds? 

Enough  of  all  thi.«— we  are  coming  to  pleasanter  subjects,  namely, 
to  the  dwelling  of  Signoras  Letitia  and  Francesca — which  itself 


—    313  - 


seemed  to  be  en  neglig'ee,  and  had  in  front  two  great  round  windows 
around  winch  grape-vines  curled,  so  that  they  looked  like  a  prolu- 
sion of  beautiful  green  ringlets  falling  about  its  eyes.  And  at  a  dis- 
tance we  heard  ringing  from  within,  warbling  trills,  guitar-tones, 
and  merry  laughter. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Signora  Letitia,  a  young  rose  of  fifty  summers,  lay  in  bed,  tril- 
ling and  prattling  with  her  two  gallants,  one  of  whom  sat  upon  a 
low  cricket,  while  the  other  leaning  back  in  a  great  arm-chair  played 
the  guitar.  From  an  adjoining  room  rang  scraps  of  a  sweet  song,  or 
of  a  far  sweeter  wondrously-toned  laughter.  With  a  certain  cheap 
and  easy  irony,  which  he  occasionally  assumed,  the  marquis  pre- 
sented me  to  the  lady  and  to  the  two  gentlemen,  remarking,  that  I 
was  the  same  John  Henry  Heine  so  celebrated  in  German  legal 
literature.  Unfortunately  one  of  the  gentlemen  was  a  Professor  in 
the  University  of  Bologna,  and  a  jurist  at  that,  though  his  fat, 
round  belly  seemed  rather  to  indicate  that  his  forte  was  spherical 
trigonometry.  Feeling  as  if  I  were  rather  in  a  scrape,  I  replied,  that 
I  did  not  write  under  my  own  name,  but  under  that  of  Jarke— a 
statement  made  from  pure  modesty,  as  the  name  which  came  into 
my  head  was  that  of  one  of  the  most  miserable  insects  among  our 
legal  writers.  The  Bolognese  regretted  from  his  soul  that  he  never 
had  heard  this  distinguished  name— which  will  probably  be  your  own 
case  also,  reader— but  still  entertained  no  doubt  that  its  splendour 
would  ere  long  irradiate  the  entire  earth.  With  this  he  leaned  back 
in  the  chair,  touched  a  few  chords  on  the  guitar,  and  sang  from 
-  Axur:" 

"Oh  powerful  Brama! 
Ah  let  the  weak  stammer 
Of  innocence  please  thee, 
Its  stammer  and  clamor!" 

While  a  delicious  mocking  nightingale-echo  warbled  in  the  adjoining 
chamber  the  same  air.  Meanwhile  Signora  Letitia  trilled  in  the 
most  delicate  soprano  : 

"For  thee  alone  these  cheeks  are  glowing 
For  thee  alone  these  pulses  beat, 
"With  Love's  sweet  impulse  overflowing, 
This  heart  now  throbs  unci  nil  for  thee." 

27 


—    3U  — 


And  with  the  commonest  prose  voice  she  added,  "  Bartolo,  bring  m« 

the  spittoou  I" 

Then,  from  his  lowly  seat  arose  Bartolo,  with  his  dry  wooden  legs, 
and  presented,  with  all  due  honor,  a  spittoon  of  blue  porcelain. 

This  second  gallant,  as  Gumpelino  said  to  me  aside  in  German,  was 
a  far-famed  poet,  whose  songs,  though  written  twenty  years  ago,  still 
ring  through  Italy,  and  intoxicate  with  their  wild  glow  of  love  both 
old  and  young ;  while  he  himself  is  but  a  poor  elderly  man,  with 
dimmed  eyes  in  a  pale  face,  scanty  white  hair  on  his  trembling  head, 
and  cold  poverty  in  his  care-worn  heart.  Such  a  poor  old  poet,  with 
his  bald  dryness,  resembles  a  vine  which  we  see  standing  leafless  in 
winter  on  the  bleak  hill-side,  trembling  in  the  wind  and  covered  with 
snow,  while  the  sweet  juice  which  once  ran  from  it,  warms,  in  far  dis- 
tant lands,  the  heart  of  many  a  boou-compauion,  and  inspires  songs  in 
its  praise.  "Who  knows  but  that  when  that  wine-press  of  thought,  the 
printing-press,  has  squeezed  mt  dry,  and  the  ancient  tapped  spirit  is  only 
to  be  found  in  the  bookseller's  vaults  of  Hoffmann  and  Campe,  I,  too, 
may  6it,  as  thin  and  care-worn  as  old  Bartolo,  on  a  cricket  near  the 
bed  of  some  old  inamorata,  and  hand  her,  when  called  on — a  spit- 
toon. 

Signora  Letitia  made  excuses  for  lying  a-bed,  and  indeed  on  her 
stomach  at  that,  as  an  affliction  resulting  from  a  too  free  indulgence 
in  figs  prevented  her  from  lying  on  her  back,  as  a  respectable  lady 
should.  She  lay,  in  fact,  in  pretty  much  the  attitude  of  a  Sphynx. 
her  high  friseed  head  supported  on  both  arms,  while  between  them 
her  breasts  billowed  and  moved  like  a  red  sea. 

"You  are  a  German?"  she  inquired. 

"  I  am  too  honorable  to  deny  it,  Signora,"  replied  my  Little- 
ness. 

"  Ah,  the  Germans  are  honorable  enough  !"  she  sighed,  "  but  what 
does  it  avail  that  the  Germans  who  rob  us  are  honorable ! — they  are 
ruining  Italy.  My  best  friends  are  imprisoned  in  Milan ;  and  only 
slavery  " 

"  No,  no  !"  cried  the  Marquis,  "  do  not  complain  of  the  Germans  ; 
we  are  conquered  conquerors,  vanquished  victors,  so  soon  as  we  come 
to  Italy.  To  see  you,  Signora,  and  to  fall  at  your  feet,  are  one  and 
the  same."  And  with  this  he  spread  his  great  yellow  silk  pocket- 
handkerchief  on  the  floor,  and  kneeling  on  it,  exclaimed,  "Here  I 
kneel  and  honor  you  in  the  name  of  all  Germany." 

"  Christophoro  di  Gumpelino  !"  sighed  the  Signora,  deeply  moved, 
"  arise  and  embrace  me  !" 


815  — 


But  lest  the  beloved  shepherd  might  disturb  her  curling  locks  and 
the  rouge  of  her  cheeks,  she  did  uot  kiss  him  on  the  glowing  lips,  but 
on  his  noble  brow,  so  that  his  face  reached  lower  down,  and  its  rud- 
der, the  nose,  steered  about  in  the  red  sea  below. 

"  Signor  Baf.tolo,"  I  cried,  "  permit  me  also  to  officiate  with  the 
spittoon  I" 

Sorrowfully  smiled  Signor  Baktolo,  but  never  a  word  spake  he, 
though  said  to  be,  next  to  Mezzofanti,  the  best  teacher  of  languages 
in  Bologna.  We  never  converse  willingly  when  talking  is  our  pro- 
fession. He  served  the  Signora  as  a  silent  knight — only,  from  time 
to  time,  he  was  called  on  to  recite  the  poem  which  he,  twenty-five 
years  before,  had  thrown  on  the  stage  when  she  first  in  Bologna  made 
her  debut  in  Ariadne.  It  may  be  that,  in  those  days,  he  himself  was 
in  full  leaf  and  glowing  enough — perhaps  as  much  so  as  the  holy 
Dionysios  himself — while  beyond  doubt  his  Letitia- Ariadne  leapt 
wildly,  like  a  Bacchante,  into  his  passionate  arms — Evoe  Bacche ! 
lu  those  days  he  wrote  many  poems,  still  living  in  Italian  literature, 
while  the  poet  himself,  and  the  beloved  one,  have  long  been  mere 
wuste  paper. 

For  five  and  twenty  years  his  devotion  has  endured,  and  I  think 
that  even  until  he  dies  he  will  sit  on  the  cricket  and  recite  his  poem, 
or  serve  his  lady  as  commanded.  The  professor  of  law  has  been 
entwined  as  long  as  the  other  in  the  love-chains  of  the  Signora ;  he 
courts  her  still  w7ith  as  much  ardor  as  at  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury, and  must  still  pitilessly  shorten  his  legal  lectures  when  she 
requires  his  escort  to  any  place,  and  he  is  still  burdened  with  all  the 
servitude  of  a  genuine  patito. 

The  constancy  of  these  two  adorers  of  a  long  ruined  beauty  may 
be  perhaps  mere  habit,  perhaps  a  regard  for  an  earlier  feeling,  and 
perhaps  the  feeling  Itself,  which  is  now  entirely  independent  of  the 
present  condition  of  its  former  object,  and  which  now  regards  it  with 
the  eyes  of  memory.  Thus  in  Catholic  cities  we  often  see,  at  some 
street  corner,  old  people  kneeling  before  an  image  of  the  Madonna, 
which  is  so  faded  that  but  few  traces  of  it  are  visible — yes,  it  may  be 
that  it  is  entirely  obliterated,  nothing  remaining  but  the  niche  wherein 
it  was  painted,  and  the  lamp  hanging  over  it ;  but  the  old  people  who 
so  piously  kneel  there  have  done  so  since  youth — habit  sends  them 
thither  daily  at  the  same  hour — they  have  not  noted  the  gradual  dis- 
appearance of  the  picture,  and  at  last  they  become  so  dim  of  sight 
with  age  that  it  makes  no  difference  whether  the  object  of  adoration 
is  visible  or  not.    Those  who  believe  without  seeing  are,  at  any  rate, 


—   81G  — 


happier  than  the  sharp  sighted,  who  at  once  perceive  every  little 
irregularity  in  the  face  of  their  Madonna.  There  is  nothing  so  terri- 
ble as  such  observations !  Once,  I  admit,  I  believed  that  infidelity 
in  woman  was  the  most  dreadful  of  all  possible  things,  and  to  give 
them  the  most  dreadful  name,  once  and  for  all,  I  called  them  serpents. 
But  now,  alas !  the  most  terrible  thing  to  me  is  that  they  are  not 
altogether  serpents,  for  then  they  would  come  out  every  year  with  a 
fresh  skin,  revived  and  rejuvenated ! 

Whether  either  of  the  ancient  Celadons  felt  a  thrill  of  envy  that 
the  Marquis — or,  rather,  his  nose — swam  in  a  sea  of  delight  in  the 
manner  above  described,  is  more  than  I  know.  Bartolo  sat  calmly 
on  his  low  seat,  his  stick  legs  crossed,  and  played  with  the  Signora's 
lap-dog,  one  of  those  pretty  creatures  peculiar  to  Bologna,  and  known 
among  us  by  the  familiar  term  of  "  Bolognas."  The  professor  was 
not  in  the  least  put  out  in  his  song,  which  was  occasionally  inter- 
rupted by  tittering  sweet  tones  in  the  next  room,  which  drowned  it  in 
a  merry  parody,  and  which  he  himself  at  times  discontinued  in  order 
to  illuminate  me  with  legal  questions.  When  we  did  agree  in  our 
opinions,  he  swept  a  few  impatient  chords  and  jingled  quotations  in 
proof.  I,  however,  supported  my  views  on  those  of  my  teacher's,  the 
illustrious  Hugo,  who  is  greatly  celebrated  in  Bologna  under  the 
name  of  Ugoxe,  and  also  of  Ugolixo. 

"  A  great  man !"  cried  the  professor,  and  sang : 

"  The  gentle  summon?  of  his  voice 

Still  sounds  so  deeply  in  thy  breast, 
Its  very  pain  makes  thee  rejoice, 
And  rapture  briDgs  thee  heavenly  rest." 

Thibaut,  whom  the  Italians  call  Tibaldo,  is  also  much  honored  in 
Italy,  though  his  writings  are  not  so  much  known  there  as  his  prin- 
cipal opinions  and  their  objections.  I  found  that  only  the  names  of 
Gans  and  Savigny  were  familiar  to  the  professor,  who  was  under  the 
impression  that  the  latter  was  a  learned  lady. 

"  Ah,  indeed !"  he  remarked,  as  I  corrected  this  very  pardonable 
error  ;  "  really  no  lady  !  I  have  been  erroneously  informed.  Why, 
I  was  even  told  that  once,  at  a  ball,  Signor  Gans  invited  this 
lady  to  dance,  but  met  with  a  refusal* — and  that  from  this  originated 
a  literary  enmity." 

"You  have  really  been  misinformed.  Signor  Gans  does  not 
dance,  and  for  the  philanthropic  reason,  that  he  might  cause  an 


*  Refils. 


—    317  — 

earthquake  should  he  do  so.  The  invitation  to  dance,  of  which  you 
speak,  is  probably  an  allegory  misunderstood.  The  historical  and 
philosophical  schools  are  regarded  as  dancers,  and  thus  we  may 
readily  imagine  a  quadrille  between  Ugoxe,  Tibaldo,  Gans  and  Sa- 
vigxy.  And  in  this  sense  Signor  Ugone,  though  he  be  the  diable 
boiteux  of  Jurisprudence,  still  dances  as  daintily  as  Lemiere,  while 
Signor  Gans  has  recently  made  some  jumps  which  entitle  him  to  be 
regarded  as  the  Hoguet  of  the  philosophical  school." 

"Signor  Gans,  then"  —  amended  the  Professor  —  "dances  only 
allegorically,  so  to  say,  metaphorically." — Then  suddenly,  without 
saying  more,  he  again  swept  the  strings  of  his  guitar,  and  amid  the 
maddest  playing  sang : 

It  is  true,  his  well-loved  name 

Is  the  joy  of  every  bosom, 

Though  the  ocean  waves  be  storming, 

And  the  clouds  o'er  Heaven  be  swarming, 

Still  we  hear  Tarar  loud  calling, 

As  though  heaven  and  earth  were  bowing 

To  the  mighty  hero's  name. 

As  for  Herr  Gceschen,  the  Professor  did  not  so  much  as  know 
that  he  existed.  But  this  was,  however,  natural  enough,  for  the 
name  of  the  great  Göschen  has  not  yet  got  so  far  as  Bologna,  but 
only  to  Poggio,  which  is  four  German  miles  distant,  and  where  it 
will  for  amusement  remain  awhile.  Göttingen  itself  is  by  no  means 
so  well  known  in  Bologna  as  it  ought  to  be,  merely  on  the  common 
principles  of  gratitude,  since  it  calls  itself  the  German  Bologna.  I 
will  not  inquire  whether  this  name  be  appropriate  or  not — suffice  it 
to  say,  that  the  two  Universities  are  really  distinguishable  by  the 
simple  fact,  that  in  Bologna  they  have  the  smallest  dogs  and  the 
greatest  scholars,  while  in  Göttingen,  on  the  contrary,  are  the 
smallest  scholars  and  the  greatest  dogs. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

As  the  Marquis  Christophoro  di  Gumpeltno  drew  his  nose  from 
the  red  sea,  wherein  it  had  been  wallowing  like  a  very  Pharaoh, 
his  countenance  gleamed  with  selfish  delight.  Deeply  moved,  he 
promised  the  Signora  that  so  soon  as  she  should  again  be  in  a  con- 
dition to  sit  down,  he  would  bring  her  in  his  coach  to  Bologna. 


31S  — 


It  was  at  once  arranged  that  the  Professor  should  ride  on  before, 
but  that  Bartolo  should  sit  within  on  the  box,  and  hold  the 
Signora's  lap-dog,  and  that  they  all  would  go  in  a  fortnight  to 
Florence,  where  Signora  Francesca,  who  intended  travelling  during 
the  same  time  with  my  Lady  to  Pisa,  would  finally  meet  us.  "While 
the  Marquis  counted  up  the  cost  of  all  this  on  his  fingers,  be 
hummed  di  ianti  palpiti,  Signora  sang  the  clearest  toned  trills, 
and  the  Professor  stormed  away  on  his  guitar,  caroling  such  burn- 
ing werds,  that  the  sweat  ran  down  from  his  brow  and  mingled  with 
the  tears  from  his  eyes,  formed  a  perfect  torrent.  While  all  this 
ringing  and  singing  went  merrily  on,  the  door  of  the  adjoining  cham- 
ber was  suddenly  opened  and  in  sprang  a  being — 

I  adjure  you,  ye  Muses  of  the  Old  and  New  World,  and  ye  also, 
oh  undiscovered  Muses  who  are  as  yet  to  be  honoured  by  later  races 
— sprites  of  whom  I  have  dreamed  in  the  gay  green-wood  and  by  the 
sounding  sea — that  ye  give  me  colours  wherewith  to  paint  that  being 
which  next  to  virtue  is  the  most  glorious  of  this  world.  Virtue: — 
of  course — is  the  first  among  glories,  and  the  Creator  adorned  her 
with  so  many  charms,  that  it  would  really  seem  that  he  could  produce 
naught  beside  to  be  compared  to  her.  Yet  in  a  happy  hour  he  once 
again  concentrated  all  his  energies  and  made  Signora  Francesca,  the 
fair  danseuse,  that  great  master-piece,  who  was  born  after  the  crea- 
tion of  Virtue,  and  in  whom  he  did  not  in  a  single  particular  repeat 
himself  as  earthly  artists  are  wont  to  do. — No,  Signora  Francesca  is 
perfectly  original — she  hath  not  the  least  resemblance  to  Virtue, 
and  there  are  critics  and  connoisseurs  who  even  prefer  her  to  the 
latter,  to  whom  they  award  only  the  precedence  due  to  superior 
antiquity.  But  is  that  much  of  a  defect  when  a  danseuse  is  only 
some  six  thousand  years  too  young? 

Ah,  methinks  I  see  her  again  as  she  sprung  from  the  opened  door 
to  the  midst  of  the  room,  and  after  an  incredible  pirouette,  cast  her- 
self at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  hiding  both  eyes  with  her  hands,  and 
crying,  "  Ah,  I  am  so  tired  with  sleeping!"  The  Marquis  now  ap- 
proached and  entered  into  a  long  address,  in  which  his  ironical, 
broadly  respectful  manner,  enigmatically  contrasted  with  his  sudden 
pauses,  when  moved  by  common  sense  business  recollections,  and  his 
fluency  when  sentimentally  inspired.  Still  this  style  was  not  un- 
natural; it  was  probably  formed  in  him  by  his  inability,  through 
want  of  courage,  to  set  forth  successfully  that  supreme  influence  to 
which  he  believed  himself  to  be  entitled  by  his  money  and  intelli- 
gence— and  he  therefore  sought,  coward-like,  to  conceal  it  in  language 


—   319  — 


of  exaggerated  humility.  His  broad  laughter  on  such  occasions  was 
disagreeably  delightful,  as  it  inspired  a  doubt  whether  it  was  a  matter 
of  duty  to  reward  him  with  kindness— or  a  kicking.  In  this  wise  he 
delivered  his  morning  service  to  Signora  Francesca,  who,  half  asleep, 
hardly  listened  to  him.  Finally  he  begged  permission  to  kiss  at 
least  her  left  foot,  and  as  he,  preparing  for  the  job,  spread  his  yellow 
handkerchief  again  on  the  floor,  she  held  it  indifferently  out  to  him. 
It  was  enveloped  in  an  exquisitely  neat  red  slipper,  in  contrast  to 
that  on  the  right,  which  was  blue — a  droll  coquetry  by  which  the 
dainty  littleness  of  both  became  more  apparent.  As  the  Marquis 
with  deep  reverence  kissed  the  small  foot,  he  arose  with  a  sighing, 
"Oh,  Jesu!"  and  begged  permission  to  present  me,  which  was 
also  accorded  in  a  gaping,  sleepy  manner,  when  my  introducer 
delivered  another  oration,  filled  with  praises  of  my  excellence,  not 
omitting  the  declaration,  on  his  word  of  honour,  that  I  had  sung 
with  great  ability  of  unhappy  love. 

I  also  begged  of  the  lady  to  be  allowed  to  kiss  her  left  foot,  and 
at  the  instant  in  which  I  enjoyed  my  share  of  this  honour,  she 
awoke,  as  if  from  a  dim  dream,  bent  smilingly  down  to  me,  gazed  on 
me  with  great  wondering  eyes,  leaped  joyfully  up  to  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  pirouetted  times  without  number  on  one  foot.  I  felt 
strangely  that  my  heart  in  my  bosom  spun  around  also,  until  it  was 
well  nigh  dizzy.  Then  the  Professor  merrily  played  on  his  guitar 
and  sang, 

An  Opera  Signora 

Once  loved  and  married  me, 
A  step  I  soon  regretted, 

And  wished  that  I  were  free. 

I  sold  her  soon  to  pirates, 

They  carried  her  afar, 
E're  she  could  look  around  her; 

Hey  !  bravo !  Biscroma. 

Once  more  Signora  Francesca  measured  me  from  head  to  foot  with 
a  sharp  glance,  and  then,  as  if  fully  contented,  thanked  the  Marquis, 
somewhat  as  if  I  were  a  present  which  he  had  been  kind  enough  to 
make  her.  She  found  little  to  object  to  in  me,  save  that  my  hair  was 
of  too  light  a  brown ;  she  could  have  wished  that  it  were  darker,  like 
that  of  the  Abbate  Cecco — and  my  eyes  were  also  too  small,  and 
rather  green  than  blue.  In  revenge,  dear  reader,  I  in  turn  should 
also  describe  Signora  Feancesca  as  depreciatingly ;  but  I  have 
really  no  shadow  of  a  defect  to  point  out  in  her  lovely  form,  whose 
perfection  was  that  of  the  Graces,  and  yet  which  was  almost  frivolous 


—    320  — 

in  its  lightness.  The  countenance  was  entirely  divine,  such  as  we  see 
in  Grecian  statues  ;  the  brow  and  nose  forming  an  almost  accurate 
straight  line,  while  the  lower  line  of  the  nose  formed  a  sweet  right 
angle  which  was  wondrously  short.  As  close,  too,  was  the  distance 
from  the  nose  to  the  mouth,  whose  lips  at  either  end  seemed  scarcely 
long  enough,  and  which  were  extended  by  a  soft  dreamy  smile,  while 
beneath  them  arched  a  dear  round  chin,  and  the  neck ! — ah,  my 
pious  reader,  I  am  getting  along  too  far  and  too  fast — and,  more- 
over, I  have  no  right  in  this  inaugural  description,  to  speak  of  the 
two  silent  flowers  which  gleamed  forth  like  white  poetry  when  the 
Hignora  loosened  the  silver  neck-button  of  her  black  silk  dress. 
Dear  reader !  let  us  rather  climb  up  again  to  a  portrayal  of  the  face, 
of  which  I  have  yet  to  remark  that  it  was  clear  and  gold-yellow,  like 
amber — that  the  black  hair  which  framed  its  temples  in  a  bright 
oval,  gave  it  a  childlike  turn,  and  that  it  was  lighted  up  by  two  black 
abrupt  eyes,  as  if  with  a  magic  light. 

You  see,  dear  reader,  that  I  would  willingly  give  you  an  accurate 
local  description  of  my  good  fortune,  and  as  other  travellers  are  ac- 
customed to  give  maps  of  the  remarkable  regions  into  which  they 
have  penetrated,  so  would  I  gladly  serve  up  Francesca  on  a  plate 
— of  copper.  But  ah  !  what  avails  the  dead  copy  of  mere  outline  in 
forms  wThose  divinest  charm  consists  of  living  movement.  Even  the 
best  painter  cannot  bring  this  before  our  eyes,  for  painting  is  but  a 
flat  lie.  Of  the  two,  a  sculptor  would  be  more  successful,  for,  by  a 
changing  illumination,  we  can  to  a  certain  degree  realize  motion  in 
forms,  and  the  torches  which  light  them  from  without,  appear  to 
inspire  a  real  life  within.  Yes,  there  is  a  statue,  dear  reader,  which 
may  give  you  some  faint  idea  of  Francesca's  loveliness,  and  that  is 
the  Venus  of  the  great  Caxova  winch  stands  in  the  last  hall  of  the 
Palazzo  Pitti  at  Florence.  I  often  think  of  this  statue  :  at  times 
in  dreams  it  slumbers  in  my  arms,  until  little  by  little  it  awakens  to 
warm  life,  and  whispers  with  the  accents  of  Francesca  !  But  it 
was  the  tone  of  this  voice  which  gave  to  every  word  the  gentlest  and 
most  infinite  significance,  and  should  I  attempt  to  give  her  phrases, 
it  would  be  only  a  dry  herbarium  of  flowers,  whose  real  charm 
was  in  their  perfume.  She  often  leaped  up,  dancing  as  she  spoke, 
and  it  is  possible  that  dancing  was  her  most  natural  language. 
And  my  heart  danced  ever  with  her,  executing  the  most  difficult  pas 
and  exhibiting  a  capacity  for  Terpsichorean  accomplishments  which 
I  had  never  suspected. 

In  this  language  Fbancesca  narrated  the  history  of  the  Abbate 


—    321  — 


Cecco,  a  young  blade  who  had  loved  her  while  she  was  still  plaiting 
straw  hats  in  the  valley  of  the  Arno — assuring  me  that  I  was  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  resemble  him.  During  this  description  she  indulged  in  the 
most  delicate  pantomime,  pressing  one  over  the  other  the  points  of  her 
fingers  on  her  heart,  then  seemed  with  cup-like  hand  to  be  scooping 
out  the  tenderest  emotions,  cast  herself  finally  with  upheaving  breasts 
on  the  sofa,  hid  her  face  in  the  cushions,  raised  her  feet  high  in  the  air 
and  played  with  them  as  if  they  were  puppets  in  a  show.  The  blue 
foot  represented  the  Abbate  Cecco  and  the  red  his  poor  Francesca; 
and  while  she  parodied  her  own  story,  she  made  the  two  loving  feet 
part  from  each  other,  and  it  was  touchingly  ludicrous  to  see  them 
kiss  with  their  tips,  saying  the  tenderest  things — and  the  wild  girl 
wept  withal  delightful  tittering  tears,  which  however  came  at  times 
unconsciously  from  the  soul  with  more  depth  than  the  part  required. 
In  her  pride  of  pain  she  delivered  for  Cecco  a  long  speech,  in  which 
he  praised  with  pedantic  metaphors  the  beauty  of  poor  Francesca  ; 
and  the  manner  in  which  she  replied  in  person,  copying  her  own 
earlier  sentimentalism,  had  in  it  something  puppet-like  and  mourn- 
ful, which  strangely  moved  my  heart.  "  Adieu,  Cecco  !"  "Adien, 
Francesca  !"  was  the  endless  refrain — and  I  was  finally  rejoiced 
when  a  pitiless  destiny  parted  them  far  asunder — for  a  sweet  fore- 
boding whispered  in  my  soul  that  it  would  be  an  unfortunate  thing 
for  me  should  the  two  lovers  remain  continually  united ! 

The  Professor  applauded  with  droll,  shrill  guitar  tones,  Signora 
trilled,  the  lap-dog  barked,  the  Marquis  and  I  clapped  our  hands  as 
if  mad,  and  Signora  Francesca  arose  and  gracefully  courtesied  her 
thanks.  "  It  is  really  a  pretty  comedy,''  said  she,  "  but  it  is  now  a 
long  time  since  it  was  first  brought  out,  and  I  am  now  so  old — guess 
how  old  ?" 

But  without  waiting  for  my  answer,  she  sprang  up  and  cried : 
"Eighteen  years!" — and  spun  round  eighteen  times  on  one  foot. 
"  And,  Doctor,  how  old  are  you  ?" 

"  I,  Signora,  was  born  on  the  new  year's  night  of  the  year  eighteen 
hundred." 

"  I  always  said,"  quoth  the  Marquis,  "that  he  was  one  of  the  first 
men  of  our  century." 

"And  how  old  should  you  suppose  I  am?"  suddenly  cried  Signora 
Letitia.  And  without  thinking  of  her  mother  Eve  dress,  which  had 
been  hitherto  concealed  by  the  bed-clothes,  she  leaped  up  so  wildly, 
and  manifested  such  agility,  that  not  only  the  Red  Sea,  but  also  all 
Arabia,  Syria  and  Mesopotamia  were  fully  visible. 


—    322  — 


Terrified  at  this  awful  spectacle,  I  sprang  back  in  horror,  but  con- 
trived to  stammer  out  a  few  phrases  as  to  the  difficulty  of  answering 
such  a  question,  "  having  as  yet  only  half  seen  Signora,"  but  as  she 
pressed  me  all  the  more  zealously  for  an  answer,  I  confessed  that  in 
truth  I  had  not  as  yet  learned  the  proportion  of  the  years  in  Italy 
to  those  of  Germany. 

"  Is  the  difference  great  I"  inquired  Signora  Letitia. 

"  Of  course,"  replied  I,  "  for  since  heat  expands  all  bodies,  it  fol- 
lows that  the  years  in  your  warm  Italy  must  be  longer  than  those  of 
our  cold  Germany." 

The  Marquis  extricated  me  better  from  this  embarrassment  by 
gallantly  asserting,  that  her  beauty  had  now  first  began  to  manifest 
itself  in  all  its  luxuriant  maturity.  "And,  Signora,"  he  added,  "as 
the  pomegranate,  the  older  it  is,  the  yellower  it  becomes,  so  will  your 
beauty  too  become  riper  with  age." 

The  lady  seemed  to  be  gratified  with  this  comparison,  and  con- 
fessed that  she  really  did  feel  much  riper  now  than  of  old,  when  she 
was  but  a  thin,  little  thing,  and  had  made  her  debut  in  Bologna — 
and  that  in  fact,  she  could  not  comprehend  how  it  was  that  with 
such  a  figure  she  could  ever  have  made  such  a  furore.  And  then 
she  narrated  all  the  particulars  of  this  first  appearance  as  Ariadne — 
a  subject  to  which,  as  I  subsequently  ascertained,  she  frequently 
recurred,  on  which  occasions  Signor  Bartolo  was  obliged  to  recite 
the  poem  which  he  had  thrown  upon  the  stage.  It  was  a  good 
poem,  full  of  touching  melancholy  at  the  infidelity  of  Theseus,  and 
of  wild  inspiration  for  Bacchus,  and  the  glowing  apotheosis  of  Ari- 
adne. "Bella  cosa!"  cried  Signora  Letitia  at  every  verse;  and  I 
also  praised  the  metaphors,  the  construction  of  the  verse,  and  the 
entire  treatment  of  the  myth. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  beautiful,"  said  the  Professor,  "and  has  beyond 
doubt  a  foundation  in  historical  fact,  for  several  writers  distinctly 
state  that  Oneus,  a  priest  of  Bacchus  married  the  mourning  Ariadne 
when  he  found  her  abandoned  on  Naxos ;  and,  as  often  happens  in 
the  legend,  the  priest  of  the  God  has  been  taken  for  the  God 
himself." 

I  could  by  no  means  agree  with  him  in  this  opinion,  since  in  my- 
thology I  rather  incline  to  historical  interpretation,  and  consequently 
asserted,  "  I  can  see  nothing  in  the  whole  fable  that  Ariadne,  after 
being  left  by  Theseus  in  the  island  of  Naxos,  submitted  her  person 
to  the  embraces  of  Bacchus,  but  an  allegorical  statement  that  she 
took  to  drinking — an  hypothesis  maintained  by  many  learned  men  in 


—    323  — 


my  father-land.  "  You,  Signor  Marquis,  are  probably  aware,  that 
in  accordance  with  this  hypothesis,  the  late  Banker  Bethmann  has 
so  contrived  to  illuminate  his  Ariadne,  that  she  appears  to  have  a 
red  nose."* 

u  Yes,  yes,  Bethmanx,  in  Frankfort,  was  a  great  man  L"  cried  the 
Marquis.  But,  at  the  same  instant,  some  deep  reflection  seemed  to 
flit  across  his  brain,  and  with  a  sigh  he  said,  "  Lord  !  Lord  ! — I  have 
forgotten  to  write  to  Rothschild  in  Frankfort !"  And,  with  a  serious 
business  face,  from  which  all  parodising  mockery  seemed  to  have 
vanished,  he  departed  somewhat  abruptly,  promising  to  return 
towards  evening. 

When  he  had  left,  and  I  was  about — as  is  usual  in  this  world — to 
pass  my  comments  on  the  man  to  whose  kindness  I  was  indebted  for 
the  most  agreeable  of  introductions,  I  found,  to  my  astonishment, 
that  the  whole  party  could  not  praise  him  sufficiently,  and  that,  above 
all,  his  enthusiasm  for  the  beautiful,  his  noble  and  refined  deport- 
ment, and  his  utter  want  of  selfishness,  inspired  in  them  the  most 
exaggerated  expressions  of  admiration.  Even  Signora  Francesca 
joined  in  this  hymn  of  praise,  but  naively  confessed  that  his  nose 
was  rather  alarming,  and  that  its  enormous  size  reminded  her  of  the 
tower  of  Pisa. 

When  taking  leave,  I  begged  as  a  favour  to  be  allowed  to  kiss  her 
left  foot  once  more,  when  she  with  smiling  seriousness  drew  off  not 
only  the  red  shoe  but  her  stocking  also :  and,  as  I  knelt,  held  up  to 
me  the  white,  fresh,  blooming,  lily  foot,  which  I  pressed  to  my  lips, 
more  believingly,  perhaps,  than  I  would  have  done  that  of  the  Pope. 
Of  course,  I  then  performed  the  duties  of  ladies'  maid,  aiding  her  to 
draw  on  the  stocking  and  shoe.  , 

"  I  am  contented  with  you,"  said  Signora  Francesca,  after  the 
pedal  toilette  was  over,  and  in  accomplishing  my  share  of  which  I 
had  been  by  no  means  in  a  hurry,  though  all  my  ten  fingers  had  been 
very  busily  engaged — "  I  am  contented  ;  and  you  shall  often  have  an 
opportunity  of  pulling  on  my  stockings.    To-day  you  have  kissed  my 

*  "  Danjteker's  statue  of  Ariadne,  in  the  garden  of  Mr.  Bethmann,  near  the  Friedburg 
Gate,  is  the  pride  and  boast  of  Frankfort,  and  deserves  to  be  ranked  among  the  most 
distinguished  productions  of  modern  art."  By  drawing  a  crimson  curtain  over  the 
window  which  illuminates  the  room  in  which  the  statue  is  placed,  a  rosy  hue  is  commu- 
nicated not  only  to  the  nose  of  the  lady,  but  to  her  entire  person.  I  have  heard  it 
disputed  whether  the  color  thus  given  most  resembles  that  of  healthy  flesh  or  of  a 
nettle-rash — a  point  settled  by  ascertaining  that  those  who  differed  in  opinion  had  seen 
the  statue  at  different  periods  of  time,  When  the  curtain  is  new,  Ariadne  certainly 
appears  rather  ultra-incarnadine,  but  as  it  fades  6he  gradually  lapses  into  a  paler, 
healthier  hue. — [Note  by  Translator.] 


—   324  — 


left  foot,  to-morrow  the  right  shall  be  at  your  disposal.  The  next 
day  you  may  kiss  my  left  hand,  and  the  day  after  the  right.  If  yew 
do  yonr  duty  well,  by  and  by  you  will  get  to  my  mouth.  &c.  &c.  <fcc. 
You  see  that  I'm  inclined  to  help  you  along,  and  as  you  are  still 
quite  young,  you  may  yet  get  along  very  well  in  the  world." 

I  did,  indeed,  advance  far  into  the  world  of  which  she  spoke  !  Be 
my  witnesses,  ye  Tuscan  nights,  thou  clear  blue  heaven  with  great 
silver  stars,  ye  wild  laurels  and  secret  myrtles,  and  ye,  too,  0  nymphs 
of  the  Apennines,  who  swept  around  us  in  a  bridal  dance,  and 
dreamed  yourselves  once  more  in  those  better  days  of  the  immortals, 
when  there  were  no  Gothic  lies,  which  permit  only  blind,  groping 
pleasures  in  secret,  and  hasten  to  stick  before  every  free  feeling  their 
hypocritical  fig-leaf. 

There  was,  however,  in  this  case,  no  occasion  for  any  particular 
fig-leaves,  since  a  whole  fig-tree,  with  broad  spreading  branches, 
rustled  over  the  heads  of  the  happy  pair ! 


CHAPTER  Til. 

Every  one  knows  what  whippings  are,  but  no  one  has  as  yet  made 
out  what  love  is.  Some  natural  philosophers  have  asserted  that  it 
i3  a  sort  of  electricity,  which  is  not  impossible,  for  in  certain  raptu- 
rous periods  of  love,  we  feel  as  though  an  electric  flash  from  the  eyes 
of  the  loved  one  had  penetrated  our  heart.  Ah  !  such  lightnings  are 
the  most  äestruetive  of  all ;  and  I  will  honour  above  Franklin,  the 
man  who  will  invent  a  conductor  which  will  protect  us  against  them. 
If  there  were  only  little  conductors  running  to  the  heart,  to  which 
lightning-rods  were  attached,  which  could  divert  the  dreadful  fire  to 
some  other  quarter !  But  I  fear  that  it  is  not  so  easy  a  matter  to 
rob  Cupid  of  his  arrows,  as  Jupiter  of  his  lightning  and  tyrants  of 
their  sceptres.  Besides,  every  love  does  not  work  in  the  lightning 
-tyle :  many  a  time  it  is  hidden  like  a  snake  amid  roses,  and  looks 
for  the  first  crevice  in  the  heart  wherein  to  nestle — often  it  is  only  a 
word,  a  glance,  the  light  narration  of  some  illicit  deed,  which  falls 
like  a  seed  into  the  heart,  lies  there  through  the  long  winter  time 
until  Spring  comes,  when  the  little  grain  shoots  up  into  a  flaming 
Mower,  whose  perfume  benumbs  the  brain.  The  same  sun  which 
hatches  forth  crocodile's  eggs  in  Egypt,  may  at  the  same  time  fully 
ripen  the  love-seed  in  a  young  heart  in  Potsdam — for  in  Potsdam, 


—    325  — 


as  in  Egypt,  there  are  tears.  Has  no  one  penetrated  their  being  ? 
has  no  one  solved  the  riddle?  Perhaps  such  a  solution  would  cause 
greater  pain  than  the  riddle  itself,  and  the  heart  would  be  by  it 
stricken  with  horror,  and  petrified  as  at  the  sight  of  the  Medusa. 
Serpents  twine  around  the  awful  word  which  reveals  this  mystery. 
Oh !  I  will  never  know  that  word  of  solution,  for  the  burning  misery 
in  my  own  heart  is  dearer  to  me  than  cold,  marble-like  death.  Oh  ! 
utter  it  not,  ye  forms  of  the  dead,  which,  painless  as  stone,  but  as 
feelingless,  wander  through  the  rose  gardens  of  this  world,  and  smile 
with  pale  lips  on  the  foolish  soul  who  praises  the  perfume  of  the 
roses,  and  bewails  their  thorns. 

But  if  I,  dear  reader,  cannot  tell  thee  what  love  really  is,  I  can 
at  least  describe  with  the  utmost  accuracy  4  how  a  man  behaves, 
and  how  he  feels,  when  he  is  enamoured  among  the  Apennines.  For 
he  then  behaves  like  a  fool ;  he  dances  on  rocks  and  hills,  believing 
that  the  whole  world  dances  with  him.  He  feels  as  if  the  earth  had 
just  been  finished  on  that  very  day,  and  that  he  was  the  first  man 
made.  "Ah!  how  beautiful  everything  is!"  I  carolled,  as  I  left 
Francesoa's  dwelling.  "  How  fair  and  precious  is  this  new  world  !" 
I  felt  as  though  I  must  give  to  all  plants  and  animals  a  new  name, 
and  I  called  every  one  according  to  its  inner  nature  and  my  own 
feelings,  which  blended  so  marvellously  with  all  things  without.  My 
breast  was  a  well-spring  of  revelation,  and  I  understood  all  forms 
and  figures,  the  perfume  of  plants,  the  song  of  birds,  the  piping  of 
the  wind,  and  the  rustling  of  waterfalls.  Often,  too,  I  seemed  to 
hear  the  divine  voice,  "Adam,  where  art  thou  ?"  "  Here  am  I,  Fran- 
cesca  !"  I  replied.  "I  pray  to  thee,  for  well  I  know  that  thou  hast 
created  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  the  earth  with  all  its  creatures  !" 
Then  there  was  soft  laughter  among  the  myrtles,  and  I  secretly 
sighed  within  myself,  "  Oh,  delicious  folly,  do  not  forsake  me  !" 

But  it  was  when  twilight  stole  over  me  that  the  delirious  happi- 
ness of  love  first  truly  began.  The  trees,  danced  on  the  rocks, 
while  their  heavy  heads  were  ruddily  flushed  over  by  the  setting 
sun  as  though  intoxicated  from  their  own  embracing  vines.  Be- 
low them  the  brook  darted  more  hurriedly  along  and  murmured 
anxiously  as  though  fearing  to  undermine  and  overthrow  the  en- 
raptured quivering  trees.  And  over  all  flashed  the  summer  eye 
light  rising  as  deliciously  as  light  kisses.  "Yes,"  I  cried,  "the 
laughing  Heaven  kisses  laughing  Earth — oh  Francesca!  lovely 
Heaven,  let  me  be  thy  Earth  ?  I  am  all  so  earthly,  and  sigh  for 
thee  my  Heaven  !"    So  I  cried,  holding  my  hands  in  wild  prayer  up 

28 


—    326  — 


to  Heaven,  and  ran  and  struck  my  head  against  many  a  tree,  which 
instead  of  scolding-  I  embraced,  and  my  whole  soul  cried  out  witb 
joy  in  all  the  intoxication  of  love, — when  I  suddenly  beheld  a  gleam- 
ing, scarlet  form,  which  at  once  tore  me  violently  from  my  dreams 
and  brought  me  back  to  a  sense  of  the  coldest  reality. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

On  a  mossy  bank,  beneath  a  wide  branching  laurel,  sat  Hyacin- 
thos,  the  Marquis's  servant,  and  near  him  his  dog  Apollo.  The 
latter,  however,  might  rather  be  said  to  be  standing,  as  he  had  both 
fore-paws  on  the  scarlet  knee  of  the  little  man,  and  inquisitively 
beheld  how  the  latter,  holding  a  tablet  in  his  hand,  wrote  from  time  to 
time  therein.  At  times,  whilst  thus  employed,  Hyacinthos  smiled 
sorrowfully,  then  shook  his  head,  and  then  handkerchiefed  his  face 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

**  What  the  devil !"  I  cried,  "  Hirsch  Hyacinth  !  are  you  compos- 
ing poetry?  Well  the  symptoms  are  favourable.  Apollo  is  by  your 
side  and  the  laurel  hangs  over  your  head." 

But  I  did  the  poor  sinner  injustice.  He  amiably  answered, 
"Poems!  no;  I'm  a  lover  of  poems,  but  don't  write  'em.  What 
should  I  write?  I  hadn't  any  thing  to  do  just  then,  and  so  just  for 
fun  I  was  writing  off  a  list  of  the  names  of  those  gentlemen  who've 
played  in  my  lottery — some  of  them  are  a  little  in  debt  to  me  yet — 
oli  don't  suppose,  Doctor,  I  meant  to  hint  any  thing! — plenty  of  time 
for  that.  I  know  that  you're  good.  If  you'd  only  taken  ticket 
Dumber  1H65  last  time  instead  of  1364,  you'd  have  been  worth  a 
hundred  thousand  marks  banco  now,  and  needn't  have  been  running 
around  here,  and  might  be  sitting  cosy  and  easy  in  Hamburg,  telling 
folks,  as  you  laid  off  on  the  sofa,  how  things  looked  in  Italy.  As  true 
as  the  Lord  may  help  me,  I  wouldn't  have  come  here  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Herr  Gumpel!  Oh  what  heat  and  danger  and  getting  tired 
I  have  to  stand,  and  wherever  there's  any  thing  out  of  the  way  or 
crazy,  there's  Herr  Gumpel — and  I  must  take  my  share  in  it.  I'd 
have  gone  away  long,  long  ago  if  I  thought  he  could  do  without  me. 
For  if  I  didn't  who  could  certify  for  him  at  home  how  much  honour 
and  cultivation  he'd  enjoyed  when  travelling?  And  to  tell  the  truth, 
Doctor,  I  begin  to  set  great  store  myself  on  cultivation  and  mannen; 
In  Hamburg,  the  Lord  be  praised  !  I  don't  need  it,  but  a  man  never 


—    327  — 


knows  what  he  may  want  when  he  goes  any  where  else.  And  folks 
are  right,  for  a  little  accomplishment  ornaments  the  whole  man. 
And  how  much  honour  you  get  by  it  too  !  For  instance,  how  Lady 
Maxfield  received  me  this  morning,  and  how  handsome  she  'came 
down.'  Just  on  a  level  with  me.  And  she  gave  me  the  francesconi 
to  drink  her  health,  though  the  flower  only  cost  five paoli.  Besides 
— oh  isn't  it  a  pleasure  to  hold  the  little,  white  naked  foot  of  a  pretty 
lady  in  your  hand  ?" 

I  was  startled  by  this  last  remark,  and  at  once  thought,  "  Is  he 
making  fun  of  met"  But  how  could  the  vagabond  know  of  the  good 
fortune  which  I  had  encountered  at  the  same  hour,  when  he  was  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hill  ?  Was  there  perhaps  a  similar  scene,  and 
was  there  perhaps  displayed  in  it,  the  irony  of  the  great  world-stage- 
poet,  who  has  acted  at  the  same  instant  a  thousand  similar  scenes, 
each  parodying  the  other  for  the  amusement  of  the  heavenly  host  ? 
But  my  suspicions  were  unfounded,  for  after  many  and  oft-repeated 
questions,  ending  with  my  solemn  promise  not  to  tell  the  Marquis, 
the  poor  fellow  admitted  that  when  he  gave  the  flower  to  Lady 
Maxfield  she  was  still  abed — and  that  just  at  the  instant  in  which 
he  was  about  to  deliver  it — and  with  it  a  fine  speech — one  of  her 
pretty  naked  feet  was  thrust  out  from  beneath  the  counterpane. 
Observing  a  corn  on  it  he  at  once  begged  permission  to  extract  the 
annoyance — which  was  readily  granted,  and  for  which,  with  the  tulip 
he  was  rewarded  with  a  francesconi. 

"  Yet  I  only  did  it  for  the  honour  of  the  thing,"  added  Hyacinth, 
"and  that's  just  what  I  said  to  Baron  Rothschild  when  I  had  the 
honour  to  cut  his  corns.  It  took  place  in  his  cabinet;  he  sat  there 
on  his  green  arm-chair  like  a  king,  with  his  courtiers  standing 
around,  and  he  all  the  while  was  a-sending  expresses  to  all  the 
kings.  And  while  I  was  cutting  his  corns  I  thought  in  my  heart, 
'  Now  you've  got  in  your  hands  the  foot  of  the  man  who  holds  all 
the  world  in  his  hands,  and  you  too  are  a  man  that's  somebody,  for 
if  you  cut  too  deep  he'll  be  angry,  and  if  you  don't  cut  enough  he'll 
be  all  the  madder  at  the  kings,' — it  was  the  happiest  moment  of  my 
life !" 

"  I  can  readily  imagine  your  feelings,  Herr  Hyacinth.  But  whom 
among  the  Rothschild  dynasty  did  you  thus  amputate  ?  Was  it 
the  high-hearted  Briton,  the  man  in  Lombard  street,  who  has  set  up 
a  pawn-broker's  shop  for  emperors  and  kings?" 

"  Of  course,  Doctor,  I  mean  the  great  Rothschild,  the  great 
Nathan  Rothschild,  to  whom  the  Emperor  of  Brazil  pawned  his  dia- 


—    328  — 


monrl  crown.  But  I  had  the  honour  too,  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  Baron  Solomon  Rothschild  in  Frankfort,  and  though  I  wasn't 
on  exactly  the  same  footing  with  him  as  the  other,  he  still  knew 
how  to  esteem  me.  When  the  Marquis  said  to  him,  that  I  had  once 
been  a  lottery  agent,  the  Baron  answered  very  wittily,  'I'm  head- 
agent  of  the  Rothschild  lottery  myself,  and  a  colleague  of  mine 
mustn't  eat  among  servants — he  must  sit  along-side  of  me  at  the 
table.'  And  as  true  as  God  be  good  to  me,  Doctor,  I  sat  by  Solo- 
mon'Rothschild,  and  he  treated  me  just  like  one  of  his  equals — 
quite  famillionaire.  I  was  with  him  too  at  the  Children's  Ball, 
which  was  in  the  newspapers.  I  shall  never  see  such  a  grand  show 
again  in  all  my  born  days.  I  was  once  in  Hamburg  at  a  ball  which 
cost  fifteen  hundred  marks  and  eight  schillings — but  that  was  nothing 
but  a  hen-dirt  compared  to  a  dung-hill.  What  lots  of  gold  and 
silver  and  diamonds,  I  saw  there !  Such  stars  and  orders !  The 
falcon-order,  the  golden-fleece,  a  lion-order,  the  eagle-order — yes, 
even  a  child — a  right  down  small  child,  wore  the  whole  order  of 
the  elephant.  The  children  were  masked,  very  pretty  and  played 
at  pawns,  and  were  dressed  up  like  kings,  with  crowns  on  their 
heads,  but  one  of  the  biggest  was  dressed  precisely  like  old 
Nathan  Rothschild.  He  acted  his  part  very  well,  kept  both 
his  hands  in  his  breeches-pockets,  shook  his  money,  shook  his 
head  as  if  in  trouble  when  any  of  the  little  kings  wanted  to  borrow 
any  thing,  and  only  showed  favour  to  the  little  one  with  the  white 
coat  and  red  panls.  This  fellow  he  patted  on  the  cheeks  and  praised 
him: — 'You're  my  boy,  my  pet,  my  pride — but  let  your  cousin  Mi- 
chael keep  out  of  my  way — I'll  not  lend  the  goose  a  penny — he 
spends  more  men  in  a  year  than  he  has  to  eat;  he'll  make  some 
trouble  yet  in  the  world  and  spoil  my  business.'  As  true  as  the 
Lord  may  help  me,  the  little  fellow  played  his  part  very  well,  par- 
ticularly when  he  helped  a  child  to  walk  along  who  was  dressed  in 
white  satin  with  real  silver  lilies,  and  now  and  then  said  to  him: 
'Now,  now  —  only  take  good  care  of  yourself — get  your  living 
honestly,  and  look  out  that  you're  not  driven  away  again,  or  I'll  lose 
my  money.'  I  tell  you  what,  Doctor,  it  was  a  real  pleasure  to  hear 
how  the  little  chap  and  the  other  children — right  nice  children  tlimj 
were — played  their  parts  very  well  till  cakes  were  brought  to  them, 
and  they  begun  to  fight  for  the  best  pieces,  and  grabbed  the  crowns 
off  one  another's  heads,  and  screamed  and  cried,  and  some  of  'em, 
even  "  


—    329  — 


CHAPTER  IX. 

There  is  nothing  so  stupid  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  as  to  read  a 
book  of  Travels  in  Italy — unless  it  be  to  write  one — and  the  only- 
way  in  which  its  author  can  make  it  in  any  degree  tolerable  is  to 
say  as  little  in  it  as  possible  of  Italy.  But  though  I  have  availed 
myself  of  this  rule,  I  still  cannot  venture  to  promise  the  reader  any 
thing  strikingly  captivating  in  the  coming  chapter.  And  if  you 
who  read  become  tired  of  the  stupid  stuff  in  it,  just  think  of  what  a 
dreary  time  I  must  have  had  writing  it !  I  would  recommend  you, 
on  the  whole,  to  once  in  a  while  skip  half  a  dozen  leaves — for  in 
that  way  you  will  arrive  much  sooner  at  the  end.  Lord  !  how  I  wish 
that  I  could  follow  the  same  plan.  And  do  not  believe  that  I  am 
jesting,  for  if  I  were  to  speak  out  in  saddest  earnestness  the  real 
opinion  of  my  very  heart,  I  would  advise  you  to  at  once  close  these 
pages,  and  read  no  more  therein.  By  and  by  I  will  improve ;  and 
when  we,  in  a  book  as  yet  unwritten,  meet  Matilda  and  Francesca 
together,  the  dear  creatures  shall  delight  you  far  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  present  chapter  or  even  in  the  next. 

The  Lord  be  praised,  I  hear  without,  before  my  window,  a  hand- 
organ,  with  merry  tunes.  My  befogged  head  needed  such  a  clearing 
up,  particularly  as  I  must  now  describe  my  visit  to  his  Excellency 
the  Marquis  Christophero  di  Gümpelino.  I  will  narrate  this  deeply 
moving  history,  with  the  utmost  accuracy,  the  most  literal  truth,  and 
in  all  its  filthy  purity. 

It  was  late  as  I  reached  the  home  of  the  Marquis.  As  I  entered 
the  room,  Hyacinth  stood  alone,  cleaning  the  golden  spurs  of  his 
master,  who,  as  I  perceived,  through  the  half-opened  door  of  his 
chamber,  was  on  his  knees  before  a  Madonna  and  a  great  crucifix. 

For  you  must  know,  dear  reader,  that  this  noble  man  is  now  a 
good  Catholic  ;  that  he  observes  with  the  utmost  strictness  all  the 
ceremonies  of  that  Church  which  alone  confers  happiness  ;  and  that 
when  he  is  in  Rome  he  keeps  his  own  chaplain,  on  the  same  principle 
which  induces  him  to  keep  in  England  the  fastest  horse,  and  in  Paris 
the  prettiest  dancing  girl. 

"  Herr  G-umpel  is  just  now  doing  his  prayers,"  whispered  Hya- 
cinth, with  a  significant  smile,  and  pointing  to  the  cabinet  of  his 
master,  added  in  a  softer  tone,  "  He  lies  that  way  every  evening  two 
hours  on  his  knees  before  the  Prima  Donna  with  the  Jesus-child.  It 
is  a  splendid  affair,  and  cost  him  six  hundred  francesconis." 

28* 


OOA 


"And  yon.  Mr.  Hyacinth,  why  don't  yon  kneel  behind  him  ?  Or 
perhaps  you  are  not  inclined  to  the  Catholic  religion  ?" 

"  I'm  inclined,  and  again  I  a'nt  inclined,"  replied  he,  reflectively 
shaking  his  head.  "It's  a  good  religion  for  a  genteel  Baron,  who 
can  go  abont  all  day  at  his  leisure,  or  for  one  who  understands  the 
fine  arts — but  it's  no  religion  for  a  Hamburgher,  for  a  man  who  has 
his  business  to  mind,  and  no  religion  at  all,  any  way  you  take  it,  foi 
a  lottery  collector.  I  must  write  down  fair  and  square  every  number 
that's  drawn,  and  if  I  happen  to  think  of — bum  !  bum  !  bum  ! — the 
Catholic  bells,  or  if  my  eyes  swim  like  Catholic  incense,  and  I  make 
a  mistake,  and  set  down  the  wrong  number,  the  worst  sort  of  trouble 
may  come  out  of  it.  Many  a  time  have  I  said  to  Herr  Gumpel, 
'  Your  Excellency  is  a  rich  man.  and  can  be  as  Catholic  as  you 
please,  and  may  smoke  up  your  wits  with  incense  as  much  as  yoa 
like,  and  may  be  as  stupid  as  a  Catholic  bell,  and  still  have  victuals 
to  eat ;  but  I'm  a  .business  man.  and  must  keep  my  seven  senses 
about  me,  to  earn  something.'  Herr  Gumpel  thinks,  of  course,  that 
it's  necessary  for  my  accomplishment,  and  that  if  I  don't  become 
Catholic  that  I  can't  understand  the  pictures  which  accomplish 
people — the  Veryoreeno,  the  Correctshow,  Caratshow,  and  Cra- 
vatshow — but  I've  always  held  that  all  the  Cokrectsiiows  and  Cra- 
vatshowh  wouldn't  help  much  if  nobody  bought  tickets  of  me,  and 
tlwfl  I  should  make  a  mighty  poor  show!  And  I  must  own,  Doc- 
tor, that,  the  Catholic  religion  don't  amuse  me  ;  and,  as  a  reasonable 
man,  you  must  allow  that  when  it  comes  to  that,  I'm  right.  I  don't 
see  any  fun  in  it — its  something  such  a  religion  as  if  the  Lord  (the 
Lord  forbid  it  !j  had  just  died,  and  everything  smelt  of  burial  incense, 
and  with  it  all,  they  roll  out  such  a  melancholy  funeral  music  as  to 
give  one  the  blues — and  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  that  it's  no  reli- 
gion for  a  II  am  burgher." 

"Well,  then,  Mr.  Hyacinth,  how  do  you  like  the  Protestant 
religion  ?" 

"  That  is  -altogether,  on  t'other  hand,  too  common  sense  like,  and 
if  the  Protestant  churches  hadn't  an  organ,  it  wouldn't  be  a  religion 
at  all.  Between  you  and  I,  the  religion  does  no  harm,  and  is  as  pure 
as  a  glass  of  water — but  it  don't  help  any.  I've  tried  it,  sir — and 
the  trial  cost  me  four  marks  fourteen  schilling." 

"  How  so,  my  good  Mr.  Hyacinth  ?" 

•  Well — do  you  see,  Doctor,  that  I  once  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  a  very  enlightened  religion,  without  any  visionary  notions 
or  miracles — though  by  the  way,  I  still  think;  that  a  church  must 


—    331  — 


have  a  few  visionary  notions,  and  a  trifle  in  the  way  of  mirnrlrs.  to 
be  one  of  the  proper  sort.  '  But  who'd  ever  work  any  miracle  there  ?' 
thought  I,  one  day  in  Hamburgh,  as  I  peeped  into  a  Protestant  church, 
one  of  the  regular  bald  sort,  with  nothing  but  brown  benches  and 
white  walls,  and  on  the  walls  nothing  but  a  blackboard,  with  half  a 
dozen  white  numbers  on  it.  'But,'  thinks  I,  'may  be  you  don't  do 
justice  to  this  religion — who  knows  but  what  these  numbers  can  work 
a  miracle  as  well  as  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  or  a  bone  of  her 
husband,  saint  Joseph?'  and,  to  settle  the  matter,  I  went  straight 
to  Altona,  and  set  these  very  numbers  in  the  Altona  lottery.  The 
deuce  I  set  with  eight  schilling,  the  terne  with  six,  the  quaterne  with 
four,  and  the  quinterne  with  two  schilling.  But  I  tell  you,  upon  my 
honour,  that  not  a  single  one  of  the  Protestant  numbers  came  out  a 
prize.  I  very  soon  made  up  my  mind  what  to  think  of  the  Protes- 
tant business.  A  great  religion,  that,  which  can't  so  much  as  bring 
out  the  deuce! — and  a  nice  goose  I'd  be  to  stake  my  salvation  on  a 
religion  by  which  I've  already  lost  four  marks  and  fourteen  schil- 
ling." 

"I  dare  say  that  the  old  Jewish  religion  suits  you  much  better, 
my  friend." 

"  Doctor — the  mischief  take  the  old  Jewish  religion  !  I  don't  wish 
it  to  my  worst  enemy.  It  brings  nothing  but  abuse  and  disgrace.  I 
tell  you  it  ain't  a  religion,  but  a  misfortune.  I  keep  out  of  the  way 
of  everything  that  puts  me  in  mind  of  it,  and  because  Hirsch  is  a 
Hebrew  word,  and  means  hyacinth,  I've  let  the  old  Hirsch  run,*  and 
now  subscribe  myself,  'Hyacinth,  Collector,  Operator,  and  Apprai- 
ser.' And  then  I  have  this  advantage,  that  I've ,  got  an  H  on  my 
seal  ring,  and  my  new  name  begins  with  an  H,  so  that  there's  no 
need  of  having  a  new  one  cut.  I  tell  you  what — it  amounts  to  a  good 
deal  in  the  long  run,  if  you  reckon  up  what  a  good  name  is  worth  to 
a  man — name's  everything.  When  I  write,  '  Hyacinth,  Collector, 
Operator,  and  Appraiser,'  it  has  another  sort  of  a  sound  from  plain 
Hirsch.    Nobody  can  treat  me  like  a  common  blackguard  then." 

"  My  good  Hyacinth,  who  would  ever  treat  you  in  such  a  manner  ? 
You  appear  to  have  done  so  much  towards  accomplishing  yourself, 
that  it  is  easy  to  recognise  a  refined  character  in  you  before  you  open 
your  mouth." 

u  You're  right,  Doctor — I  have  gone  ahead  like  a  giantess  in  im- 
proving myself.    I  really  don't  know  who  I  ought  to  keep  company 


*  Hirsch  is  also  a  German  word,  and  signifies  a  stag  or  deer. 


—    332  — 


with  when  I  get  back  to  Hamburgh — but  I  know  what  I'll  do  in  the 
religion  line.  J ust  for  the  present  I  can  get  along  with  the  new- 
Israelite  temple,  I  mean  the  pure  Mosaic-Lord's  service,  with  ortho- 
graphic German  hymns  and  moving  sermons,  and  a  few  visionary 
notions,  which  are  things  no  religion  can  do  without.  As  true  as  the 
Lord  may  help  me,  I  don't  want  any  better  religion,  and  it  is  worth 
keeping  up.  I  mean  to  do  my  part  for  it,  any  how,  and  every  Satur- 
day, when  it  isn't  a  day  for  drawing  in  the  lottery,  I'm  going  there. 
There  are  men,  and  more's  the  pity,  who  give  this  new  faith  a  bad 
name,  and  say  that  it  gives  occasion  for  a  schism — but  I  give  you 
my  word,  it's  a  good  sound  religion — perhaps  a  little  too  good  for 
common  folks,  for  whom  the  old  Jewish  religion  is  good  enough.  A 
common  man  must  have  something  stupid  to  make  him  happy,  and 
he  does  feel  happier  in  something  of  the  sort.  A  regular  old  Jew, 
with  a  long  beard  and  a  ragged  coat,  and  lousy  at  that,  and  who  can't 
speak  a  word  correct,  perhaps  feels  better  than  I  do,  with  all  my 
accomplishment.  There  lives  in  Hamburgh,  in  the  Baecker  Breiten- 
gang, a  man  named  Moses  Lump,* — the  folks  call  him  Lumpy,  for 
short,— and  he  runs  around  the  whole  week  in  wind  and  rain,  with 
his  pack  on  his  back,  to  earn  a  few  marks.  Well,  when  Friday  even- 
ing comes  round,  he  goes  home,  and  finds  the  seven-branched  lamp 
all  lighted,  a  clean  white  cloth  on  the  table,  and  he  puts  off  his  pack 
and  all  his  sorrows,  and  sits  down  at  the  table  with  his  crooked  wife 
and  crookeder  daughter,  and  eats  with  them  fish  which  have  been 
cooked  in  nice  white  garlic  sauce,  and  sings  the  finest  songs  of  King 
David,  and  rejoices  with  all  his  heart  at  the  Exodus  of  the  children 
of  Israel  from  Egypt.  He  feels  glad,  too,  that  all  the  bad  people 
who  did  anything  bad  to  them  died  at  last ;  that  King  Pharaoh, 
Nebuchadnezzar,  Haman,  Antioohus,  Titus,  and  such  like,  are  all 
dead,  but  that  Lumpy  is  still  alive,  and  eats  fish  with  his  wife  and 
child.  And,  I  tell  you  what,  Doctor,  the  fish  are  delicate,  and  the 
man  is  happy  ;  he  hasn't  any  cause  to  torment  himself  with  any 
'  accomplishment ;'  he  sits  just  as  contented  in  his  religion  and 
in  his  green  night-gown,  as  Diogenes  in  his  cask,  and  he  looks  with 
joy  at  the  lights  burning,  which  he  hasn't  even  the  trouble  of  clean- 
ing. And  I  tell  you  that  if  the  lights  should  happen  to  burn  dim, 
and  the  Jewess,  who  ought  to  snuff  them,  isn't  at  hand,  and  if  Koths- 
OHIL.D  the  Great  should  happen  to  come  in  with  all  the  brokers,  dis- 
counters, forwarders,  and  head-clerks,  with  whom  he  overcomes  the 


*  Lump  means  in  German  not  only  a  tatter  or  rag,  but  also  a  ragamuffin  or  black- 
guard. 


—   333  — 


world,  and  if  he  should  say,  "  Moses  Lump,  ask  what  thou  wilt,  it 
shall  be  given  thee," — Doctor,  I  believe  that  Moses  would  say,  quiet 
and  easy,  "  Pick  the  lamp,  then  !"  and  Rothschild  the  Great  would 
answer,  in  wonder,  "If  I  wasn't  Rothschild,  I'd  like  to  be  such  a 
Lump  as  this  !" 

As  Hyacinth,  according  to  custom,  thus  developed  his  doctrines 
with  epic  copiousness,  the  Marquis  rose  from  his  cushions  and  came 
towards  us,  still  mumbling  a  paternoster  through  his  nose.  Hya- 
cinth then  drew  the  green  curtain  over  the  image  of  the  Madonna 
which  hung  over  the  bed,  extinguished  the  two  candles,  took  down 
the  bronze  crucifix,  and,  approaching  us,  began  to  clean  it  with  the 
same  rag  and  with  the  same  care  with  which  he  had  just  cleaned  his 
master's  spurs.  But  the  Marquis  was  melting  with  heat  and  with 
soft  sentiment ;  instead  of  a  coat  he  wore  a  full  blue-silk  domino, 
with  silver  fringe,  and  his  nose  shone  sorrowfully,  like  an  enamored 
louis  d'or.  "  Oh  Jesus  !"  he  sighed,  as  he  sank  among  the  cushions 
of  the  sofa — "  don't  you  think,  Doctor,  that  I  have  a  very  dreamy, 
visionary,  poetical  look,  this  evening  ?  I  am  very  much  moved — my 
soul  is  melting ;  I  perceive  from  afar,  a  higher  world. 

1  My  eye  beholds  the  Heaven  open, 
My  heart  leaps  up  in  wondrous  bliss.'  " 

"Herr  G-umpel,  you  must  take  something,"  interrupted  Hyacinth. 
"  The  blood  in  your  inside  has  got  to  going  again.  I  know  what  is 
the  matter  with  you." 

"  You  don't  know,"  sighed  his  master. 

"  I  tell  you  I  do"  replied  the  man,  nodding  with  his  good-natured, 
going-to-work,  little  face.  "  I  know  you,  in  and  out — I  know.  You 
are  just  my  opposite  ;  when  you're  hungry  I'm  thirsty,  and  when  I'm 
thirsty  you're  hungry.  You  are  too  corpulent,  and  I'm  too  lean. 
You  have  lots  of  imagination,  and  I've  got  all  the  more  business 
capacity.  I'm  a  practicus,  and  you're  a  diarrheticus* — in  short,  you 
are  altogether  my  antipodex. 

"Ah,  Julia!"  sighed  Gumpelino,  "would  that  I  were  the  yellow 
glove  upon  thy  hand,  and  kissed  thy  cheek !  Doctor,  did  you  ever 
see  the  actress  Crelinger  in  Romeo  and  Juliet?" 

"Of  course,  and  my  whole  soul  is  still  enraptured  with  the 
memory." 

*.  Hyacinth,  in  this  sentence,  is  supposed  to  be  attempting  to  "  air''  the  Latin  which 
he  has  picked  up  under  his  master.  For  diarrheticus  read  Uieoreticus,  and  for  antipodex, 
antipodes.  An  instance  of  the  erudite  character  of  the  Germans  may  be  found  in  the  fact 
that  even  among  very  vulgar  people  the  Latin  word  podex  is  frequently  used  for  its 
German  equivalent. — [Note  by  Translator.] 


—   334  — 


*  "Well,  then,"  cried  the  Marquis,  with  enthusiasm,  and  fire  flashed 
from  his  eyes,  illuminating  his  nose — "then  you  appreciate  my  feel- 
ings— then  you  know  what  I  mean  when  I  say  Hove!  I  will  show 
myself  to  you,  and  expose  everything.  Hyacinth,  just  step  out  of 
the  room!" 

"  I  needn't  go  out,"  said  his  man,  as  if  vexed ;  "  You  needn't 
stand  on  any  ceremony  with  me,  for  I  know  what  love  is,  too,  and 
how  it" — 

**  You  don't  know !"  cried  the  Marquis. 

"  I'll  prove  that  I  know,  Herr  Marquis,  by  just  speaking  the  name 
of  Julia  Maxfield.  Oh  be  easy!  You're  loved,  too,  but  it's  of 
no  use.  The  brother-in-law  of  your  lady  never  lets  her  go  out  of 
sight  and  watches  her  night  and  day  like  a  diamond." 

"  Ah  !  wretched  that  I  am,"  moaned  Gumpelino — "  I  love  and  am 
loved  again  ;  we  secretly  press  each  other's  hands — we  tread  on  each 
other's  feet  under  the  table — glance  meaningly  at  each  other — and 

yet  can't  find  an  opportunity  to   Ah  !  how  often  I  stand  in  the 

moonlight  on  the  balcony,  and  imagine  that  I  am  Julia  and  that 
my  Romeo  or  my  Gumpelino  has  promised  me  a  rendezvous — and 
then  I  declaim  exactly  like  the  Crelinger  : 

'Come  night,  come  Gumpelino— day  iu  night ! 
For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wiDgs  of  night, 
Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back — 
Come,  gentle  nhht;  come,  loving,  black-brow'd  night, 
Give  me  my  Romeo — or  Gumpelino!' 

— But  ah !  Lord  Maxfield  watches  us  all  the  time,  and  we're  both 
dying  with  intense  desire.  I  shall  never  survive  the  day  when  either 
sets  the  blossom  of  youthful  purity  at  stake,  winning  to  lose. 
Ah !  I'd  rather  enjoy  one  such  night  with  Julia  than  win  the 
great  prize  in  the  Hamburgh  lottery  !" 

**  What  a  crazy  notion  !"  cried  Hyacinth  ;  "  the  great  prize ! — one 
hundred  thousand  marks  V* 

"  Yes — rather  than  the  great  prize,"  continued  Gumpelino,  "could 
I  have  one  such  night — and  she  has  promised  me  often  that  1  should 
have  such  a  night  when  the  first  opportunity  occurs,  and  I've  often 
thought  that  early  in  the  morning  she  would  declaim  to  me — just 
like  Crelinger — 

u '  Wilt  thou  begone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near  day  1 
It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear; 
Nightly  she  «ings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree: 
Believe  mo,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale.'  " 


—    335  — 


• "  The  great  prize  for  only  one  night !"  repeated  Hyacinth  several 
times  as  if  he  could  never  assent  to  such  an  assertion  ;  "  I  have  a 
very  high  opinion,  Herr  Marquis,  of  your  accomplishments,  but  I 
never  did  think  you'd  have  brought  your  visionary  fancies  up  to 
such  a  pitch.  That  any  man  could  ever  prefer  love  to  the  great 
prize  !  Keally,  Herr  Marquis — since  I've  waited  on  you  I've  got 
used  to  a  great  deal  of  accomplishment — but  as  far  as  I  know,  1 
wouldn't  give  an  eighth  of  the  great  prize  for  all  the  love  afloat.  The 
Lord  keep  me  from  it !  Why,  if  I  reckon  off  five  hundred  marks 
premium,  there'd  still  remain  twelve  thousand  marks.  Love!  Why 
if  I  reckon  up  all  together  that  I've  ever  paid  out  for  love  in  all  my 
life  it  only  comes  to  twelve  marks  and  thirteen  schilling.  Love ! 
Why  I've  had  lots  of  love,  free,  gratis,  for  nothing ;  only  once  in  a 
while,  to  please  my  woman,  I've  cut  her  corns  for  her.  I  never  had 
a  real  sentimental  passionate  love-scrape  but  once  in  my  life,  and 
that  was  for  fat  Sally  of  Dreckwall.  She  used  to  buy  lottery  tickets 
of  me,  and  whenever  I  called  on  her  to  square  accounts,  she  used  to 
give  me  piece  of  cake — very  good  cake,  indeed — and  sometimes 
she'd  fix  up  a  nice  little  fancy  dish  for  me,  with  a  drop  of  liquor  to 
it — and  when  I  once  told  her  that  I  was  troubled  with  the  blues, 
she  gave  me  a  receipe  for  the  powder  which  her  own  husband  used. 
I  use  the  powder  to  this  very  day — it  always  works  on  me — and  that 
was  the  only  consequence  which  our  love  ever  had.  I  thought,  Hen- 
Marquis,  that  may  be  you  needed  one  of  those  powders.  When  I 
came  to  Italy  they  were  the  first  thing  I  thought  of,  so  I  went  to 
the  apothecary  and  had  'em  made  up,  and  I  always  carry  'em  about 
with  me  Just  wait  a  minute  and  I'll  hunt  for  'era,  and  if  I  hunt 
for  'em  I'll  find  'em,  and  if  I  find  'em  your  Excellency's  got  to  take 
'em." 

It  would  require  too  much  time  to  repeat  all  the  comments  with 
which  Hyacinth  accompanied  his  researches,  as  he  drew  in  succes- 
sion each  of  the  following  articles  from  his  pocket.  These  were. — I. 
half  a  wax  candle  ;  II.,  a  silver  case,  in  which  he  kept  his  instruments 
for  cutting  corns ;  III.,  a  lemon ;  IV.,  a  pistol,  which,  though  un- 
loaded, was  carefully  wrapped  in  paper  lest  the  sight  of  it  might 
awaken  apprehension ;  V.,  a  scheme  of  the  last  drawing  of  the 
Hamburgh  lottery  ;  VI.,  a  black  leather  bound  little  book,  containing 
the  Psalms  of  David  and  the  debts  not  as  yet  collected  ;  VII.,  a  dry 
willow  withe,  twined  in  a  true-love-knot;  VIII.,  a  little  packet 
covered  with  faded  rose-coloured  silk,  and  containing  the  receipt  in 
full  for  a  lottery  prize  which  had  once  won  fifty  thousand  marks ; 


—    336  — 


IX.,  a  flat  piece  of  bread  resembling  ship's  biscuit  with  a  hole  in  the 
middle;  and  X.,  the  above  mentioned  powder,  which  the  little  man 
took  out,  not  without  a  certain  emotion  and  a  sorrowful  shaking  of 
the  head. 

"When  I  think,"  he  sighed,  "that  ten  years  ago,  fat  Sally  gave 
me  this  receipt  and  that  I'm  in  Italy  now  and  have  the  same  receipt 
in  my  hands,  and  see  the  same  words  on  it :  '  sal  mirable  Glauber i 
— that  means  in  German,  '  extra  fine  Glauber  salt  of  the  best  qual- 
ity'— ah,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  already  taken  the  salt  and  could  feel  it 
a-working  inside.  What  is  man  !  I'm  in  Italy  a-thinking  of  fat 
Sally  of  Dreckwall !  Who'd  a  thought  it  ? — I  can  think  I  see  her 
now — in  the  country,  in  her  garden,  where  the  moon  shines,  and 
where  there  must  be  for  certain  a  nightingale  singing — or  may  be  a 
lark—" 

"  It  is  the  nightingale  and  not  the  lark  !"  sighed  Gumpelino  in 
parenthesis. 

'  Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree, 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale.' " 

"  It's  all  one  to  me,"  continued  Hyacinth  ;  "  it  may  be  a  canary 
for  all  I  care — only  wild  birds  in  the  garden  don't  cost  so  much. 
The  main  thing  is  the  hot-house  and  the  carpet  in  the  pavilion  and 
the  statuaries  all  round  it — and  among  'em  there's  a  naked  General 
somebody  (one  of  the  gods) — and  the  Venus  Urinia — both  cost 
three  hundred  marks.  And  in  the  middle  of  the  garden  Sally's  got 
a  fontenelle,*  and  may  be  she's  a-standing  there,  having  make 
believe  pleasures  in  her  fancy,  and  thinking — of — me  !" 

After  this  sigh  followed  a  rapt  silence,  which  the  Marquis  finally 
broke  with  a  languishing  tone  and  question — "  Tell  me,  Hyacinth — 
on  your  honour — do  you  really  believe  that  your  medicine  will  have 
its  effect  ?" 

"Yes,  upon  honour,  it  will !  Why  shouldn't  it  work?  It  works 
on  me.  And  ain't  I  a  living  man,  just  the  same  as  you  ?  Glauber 
salts  make  all  men  alike,  and  when  Rothschild  takes  Glauber  salts 
they  operate  on  him  just  as  they  would  on  the  smallest  broker. 
And  I'll  just  tell  you  now  how  it's  all  done.  I  shake  the  powder 
into  a  glass,  pour  some  water  on  it,  and  as  soon  as  you've  swallowed 
it  you  twist  up  your  face  and  say — '  Prr — phew ! — pooh !'  Then  you 
feel  it  a  sort  of  quarrelling  about  inside  of  you,  and  you  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  yourself,  and  you  lie  down  on  the  bed,  and  then  I 
promise  you  'pon  honour  that  by  and  by  vou'll  get  up,  then  you'll 


*  Probably  a  fountain. 


—    337  — 

lay  down  again  and  get  up  again,  and  so  on  and  so  forth,  and  the 
next  morning  you  feel  as  light  as  an  angel  with  white  wings,  and 
you'll  dance  about  because  you  feel  so  well — only  you'll  look  a  little 
pale,  but  I  know  you  like  to  look  pale,  because  its  languishing-like 
— and  that's  interesting." 

While  thus  chattering,  Hyacinth  had  prepared  the  powder,  but 
the  Marquis  he  would  have  taken  this  pains  for  nothiug  had  not  the 
passage  suddenly  flashed  into  his  mind,  where  Julia  takes  the  draught 
which  has  such  a  dire  effect  on  her  destiny.  "  What  do  you  think, 
Doctor," — he  cried — "  of  the  actress  Mueller  in  Vienna  ?  I  have  seen 
her  as  Julia,  and  Lord  !  Lord  ! — how  she  did  play !  I'm  the  greatest 
enthusiast  for  Crelinger,  living — but  Mueller,  when  she  drank  off 
the  goblet,  completely  tore  me  down  ! — See  I" — this  wTas  his  excla- 
mation as  he  took  with  a  comic  gesture  the  glass,  into  which  Hya- 
cinth had  poured  the  powder — "  See  !  this  was  the  way  in  which  she 
took  the  cup,  and  shuddered  so  that  you  could  feel  every  thrill 
which  she  felt  as  she  said  : — 

" 1  There  is  a  faint  cold  fear  which  thrills  my  veins, 
And  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life.' 

"  And  so  she  stood — -just  as  I  stand — and  held  the  goblet  to  her 
lips,  saying: — 

"'Stay,  Talbot,  stay!— 
Romeo,  I  come !  this  do  I  drink  to  thee.'  " 

And  with  these  words  he  swallowed  the  medicine. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  you,  Herr  Gumpel  !"  said  Hyacinth,  in  a 
joyful  tone ;  for  the  Marquis  had,  in  his  inspiration,  drained  the 
entire  dose,  and  sunk  weary  with  declamation  on  the  sofa. 

He  did  not  remain  long  in  this  position,  for  almost  immediately 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  there  entered  Lady  Maxfield's 
little  jockey,  who  gave  to  the  Marquis  with  a  laugh  and  a  bow,  a  note, 
and  at  once  retired.  Hastily  did  Gumpelino  break  the  seal,  and 
while  he  read,  his  eyes  and  nose  gleamed  with  delight — but  suddenly 
a  spectral  paleness  covered  his  face,  emotion  was  apparent  in  every 
muscle,  and  he  sprang  about  with  gestures  of  despair,  laughing 
grimly,  and  rushed  about  the  chamber,  exclaiming — 

"What  is  it? — what  is  it?"  cried  Hyacinth,  with  a  trembling 
voice,  as  he  distractedly  cleaned  away  at  the  crucifix,  which  he  had 
again  taken  up — "Are  we  going  to  make  our  attack  to-night?" 

"What  is  the  matter,  Herr  Marquis?"  I  inquired,  equally 
astonished. 

29 


QOQ 

OOO  — 


"  Bead  !  read  I" —  cried  Gumpelino,  as  he  threw  towards  us  the 
note,  and  again  rushed  madly  about  the  room,  his  blue  domino 
streaming  behind  him  like  a  storm-cloud. 

In  the  note  we  read  the  following  words  : — 

"  Sweetest  Gumpelino  : 

"  By  break  of  day  I  must  away  to  England.  My  brother-in-law 
has  travelled  on  before,  and  awaits  me  in  Florence.  I  am  at  present 
free,  but  alas  !  only  for  this  one  night !  Let  us,  however,  avail  our- 
selves of  it;  let  us  drain  the  nectar  goblet  which  love  holds  forth, 
even  to  the  last  drop.    I  await,  I  tremble. 

"JULIA  MAXFIELP." 

"  Woe  me  !  fool  of  Fortune  V  bewailed  Gumpelino— Love  holds 
out  to  me  his  nectar-cup,  and  I — alas !  the  Jack-fool  of  Fortune, 
have  already  drained  a  goblet  of  Glauber-salts.!  Who  can  get  the 
accursed  stuff  out  of  me  now? — Help  !  help  !" 

"  No  earthly  living  man  can  help  you  now!"  sighed  Hyacinth. 

"  I  pity  you  from  my  very  heart,"  said  I,  condolingly.  "  To  drain 
a  tumbler  of  Glauber-salts,  instead  of  a  goblet  of  nectar,  is  bitter ! 
Instead  of  the  throne  of  Love,  the  chair  of  night  awaits  you  !" 

"  Oh,  Jesus !  oh,  Jesus !"  cried  the  Marquis ;  "  I  feel  it  thrill 
through  my  every  vein — oh  true  apothecary,  thy  drugs  are  quick  ! — 
but  it  shall  not  hinder  me,  I  will  hasten  to  her ;  I  will  sink  at  her 
feet  and  bleed  I" 

"There's  no  blood  in  the  business  at  all,"  replied  Hyacinth. 
"  Don't  go  off  into  rhapsodies.    Don't  be  passionate  !" 

"  No,  no !  I  will  hasten  to  her,  into  her  arms — oh,  night !  oh, 
night  I" 

"  I  tell  you,"  continued  Hyacinth,  with  philosophical  indifference, 
"  that  you  will  find  no  repose  in  her  arms.  You  will  have  to  get  up 
twenty  times  during  the  night.  Don't  be  so  passionate.  The  more 
you  run  around  the  room  and  excite  yourself,  so  much  quicker  the 
salts  work.  Your  mind  plays  into  the  hands  of  nature.  You  must 
endure  like  a  man  what  your  fate  has  determined.  Maybe  it's  good 
that  it's  come  so,  and  perhaps  it  came  so  because  it's  good.  Man 
is  an  earthly  being,  and  doesn't  understand  the  ways  of  Divinity. 
Folks  often  think  they're  going  straight  ahead  to  their  happiness, 
and  bad  luck  stands  in  the  way  with  a  stick;  and  when  a  plain  vulgar 
stick  strikes  a  noble  back,  they  feel  it,  Herr  Marquis !" 

"  Woe  me  !  a  fool  of  Fortune  !"  raved  Gumpelino.  But  his  ser- 
vant calmly  continued. 


—    339  — 

"A  man  often  expects  a  cupfull  of  nectar,  and  instead  of  it  gets 
horse-whip  soup, — if  the  nectar  is  sweet,  then  the  horse-whipping  is 
all  the  bitterer ;  and  it  is  really  lucky  that  the  man  who  thrashes 
another  must  tire  out  sooner  or  later,  or  the  fellow  he  whips  could 
never  stand  it.  But  it  is  a  great  deal  worse  when  bad  luck  hides 
in  a  man's  way  to  Love,  so  that  his  life's  in  danger.  Maybe,  Herr 
Marquis,  it  is  really  all  right  that  things  have  gone  as  they  have, 
or  perhaps — who  knows — you  might  have  been  met  ou  the  way  by 
a  little  Italian  with  a  dirk  six  yards  long,  who  would  have  run  slap 
at  you,  and  have  stuck  you  (not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it) — 
through  your  calves.  For  a  man  can't  holler  for  the  watch  here  as 
in  Hamburgh,  and  there  are  no  policemen  among  the  Appenines. 
Or  maybe,"  continued  the  pitiless  consoler,  without  paying  the 
slightest  attention  to  the  growing  rage  of  his  master — ''maybe 
when  you  were  sitting  snug  and  warm  in  Lady  Maxfield's  arms,  the 
brother-in-law  would  have  come  rushing  back  and  clapped  a  pistol  to 
your  breast,  and  made  you  sign  a  bill  of  a  hundred  thousand  marks. 
I  don't  want  to  make  mischief  or  tell  lies — but  I  say  suppose  now — 
only  suppose  that  you  were  a  good-looking  man,  and  Lady  Maxfield 
was  in  despair  for  fear  she  should  lose  her  beau,  and  was  jealous — 
like  all  women — for  fear  some  other  woman  might  get  you  after  she 
was  gone,  what  would  she  do  ?  Why  she'd  just  take  an  orange  and 
put  a  little  white  powder  on  it,  and  say,  '  Here,  dear — just  suck  this 
and  cool  yourself  off  a  little — you've  got  warm  a  running  so  fast,' — 
and  the  next  day  you'd  be  cooled  down  and  no  mistake.  There  was 
a  man  named  Piper,  who  had  a  passional  attraction  for  a  female 
individual  who  was  called  Trumpet  Angel  Jenny,  and  she  lived  in 
the  '  Coffee-factory,'  and  her  husband  by  the  Duck  Pond  " — 

"I  wish,  Hirsch,"  screamed  the  Marquis,  in  a  rage,  "I  wish  that 
your  Piper  of  the  Duck-Pond,  and  his  Trumpet-Angel  of  the  Coffee- 
Mill,  and  you  and  your  Sally,  all  had  my  Glauber's  salt  rammed 
down  your  throats !" 

"What  would  you  have,  Herr  Gumpel?"  exclaimed  Hyacinth,  not 
without  heat.  "  Was  it  my  fault  that  Lady  Maxfield's  a-going 
away  to-morrow,  and  invited  you  to  come  for  to-night?  Could  I 
know  that  beforehand  ?  Am  I  Aristotle  ?  Have  I  got  a  situation 
in  a  prophecy  office  ?  I  only  said  that  the  powder  would  work,  and 
it  will  work,  just  as  sure  as  I'm  a-going  to  Heaven,  and  if  you  go 
running  about  the  room  in  such  a  disparaging  and  passional  way,  it'll 
work  all  the  sooner" — 

"Well,  then,  I'll  sit  down  calmly  on  the  sofa!"  groaned  Gumpe- 


—    340  — 

lino  ;  and,  stamping  on  the  ground,  he  rolled  in  a  rage  on  the  sofa, 
restrained  his  mood  by  a  mighty  effort,  arid  both  servant  and  master 
gazed  long  and  silently  at  each  other,  until  the  latter  said,  with  a 
deep  sigh  and  in  a  whimpering  tone — 

"  But,  Hirsch,  what  will  the  lady  say  if  I  don't  come  ?  She  waits 
for  me,  yes,  lingers  and  trembles  and  burns  with  love" — 

"  She  has  a  beautiful  foot,"  said  Hyacinth  to  himself,  and  sorrow- 
fully  shook  his  little  head.  But  there  were  mighty  throbs  of  emotion 
at  work  in  his  heart,  and  a  shrewd  idea  was  working  itself  out  under 
his  scarlet  coat. 

"  Herr  G-umpel,"  said  the  words,  as  they  came  forth,  "  send 

ME  !" 

And  as  he  spoke,  a  deep  blush  stole  over  the-  sallow  business 
countenance. 


CHAPTER  X. 

When  Candide  came  to  El  Dorado,  he  saw  several  boys  in  the 
street  who  were  playing  with  nuggets  of  gold,  instead  of  stones. 
This  extravagance  made  him  think  that  they  must  be  royal  children, 
and  he  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  learn  that,  in  El  Dorado,  nug- 
gets of  gold  were  as  valueless  as  flint-pebbles  with  us ;  so  that  the 
very  school-boys  played  with  them.  Something  very  similar  hap- 
pened to  one  of  my  friends,  who,  when  he  first  came  to  Germany  and 
read  German  books  was  greatly  amazed  at  the  wealth  of  thought 
which  he  found  in  them — but  soon  observed  that  thoughts  are  as 
common  in  Germany  as  gold  ingots  in  El  Dorado,  and  that  many 
a  writer  who  seems  to  be  an  intellectual  prince,  is,  after  all,  a  mere 
school-boy. 

This  reflection  often  occurs  to  me,  when  I  am  about  to  write  down 
the  most  admirable  reflections  on  Art  and  Life.  Then  I  laugh,  and 
keep  my  thoughts  in  my  pen,  or  scribble  in  their  stead  a  picture  or  a 
carpet-pattern  on  the  paper,  persuading  myself  that  such  carpets  are 
more  useful  in  Germany — that  intellectual  El  Dorado — than  the  gol- 
denest  thoughts. 

Dear  reader,  I  shall  bring  on  the  carpet  now  spreading  out  before 
thee,  the  familiar  figures  of  Gumpelino  and  his  Hirsch-Hyacinth  ; 
and  if  the  former  be  painted  with  less  accurate  traits,  I  trust  that 
you  will  be  sharp-witted  enough  to  appreciate  a  negative  character, 


—    341  — 


even  if  positive  points  be  wanting  in  it.  For  he  might  bring  a  suit 
for  libel  against  me,  or  sdmething  even  more  significant.  Besides,  he 
is  the  natural  ally  of  my  enemies — he  upholds  them  with  subsidies, 
he  is  an  aristocrat,  an  ultra-papist ;  in  fact,  he  only  wants  one  thing 
as  yet  to  be  as  bad  as  possible,  and  that  one  thing  he  must  soon 
learn,  having  the  book  which  teaches  it  already  in  his  hands — as  you 
will  perceive  from  my  picture  carpet. 

It  was  again  evening ;  on  the  table  stood  two  candelabras  with 
lighted  wax  candles,  and  their  gleam  flashed  on  the  golden  frames 
of  the  pictures  of  saints  hanging  on  the  wall,  and  which,  in  the  flick- 
ering light  and  wavering  shadow,  seemed  inspired  with  life.  With- 
out, before  the  window,  the  dark  cypress  trees  stood  strangely 
motionless  in  the  silver  moonlight,  while  far  in  the  distance  resounded 
a  sad  hymn  to  the  Virgin,  rising  and  swelling  in  broken  tones — 
apparently  the  voice  of  a  sick  child.  The  air  within  was  close  and 
warm,  and  the  Marquis  Christophoro  di  Gumpelino  sat  or  rather 
reclined  in  aristocratic  indolence  on  the  cushions  of  the  sofa,  his 
noble  though  overheated  figure  being  again  clad  in  its  blue  silk 
domino,  while  in  his  hands  he  held  a  book  bound  in  scarlet  morocco- 
paper,  heavily  gilt  and  from  which  he  declaimed  in  a  loud  yet  lan- 
guishing tone.  His  eyes  had  that  charming  lustre  peculiar  to 
euamoured  tom-cats,  and  his  cheeks,  including  the  side-wings  of  the 
nose,  were  pale  as  if  from  suffering.  Still  this  pallor  admits  of  a 
philosophically  anthropological  explanation,  if  we  remember  that  the 
Marquis  had  swallowed  the  night  before  a  whole  tumbler  of  Glauber 
salts. 

Hirsch  Hyacinthus  was  down  on  all  fours  on  the  floor,  and  with 
a  great  piece  of  white  chalk  was  busy  in  drawing  on  the  brown  tiles, 
the  following  characters,  or  something  like  them — 


U  W— W  W— W  W  v — '  w 


V-/  W— W  W  V  w — w  v-> 


WW 


29* 


—    342  — 


This  business  appeared  to  be  anything  but  agreeable  to  the  little 
man,  for  puffing  at  every  stoop,  he  growled  vexedly,  "  Spondee — 
Trochee,  Jambus,  Pyrr-hic,  Anapest — and  the  pest !"  For  the  sake 
of  working  more  at  his  ease,  he  had  taken  off  his  red  coat,  and  there 
now  appeared  two  short  modest  looking  legs  in  tight  scarlet  breeches, 
and  somewhat  longer  arms,  in  white  loose  sleeves. 

"  What  curious  figures  are  those  ?"  I  inquired. 

"These  are  feet,  the  size  of  life,"  he  groaned  for  answer — "  and  I 
wretched  man  ! — must  keep  these  feet  in  my  head,  and  my  hands 
already  ache  with  all  the  feet  they've  had  to  write.  These  are  the 
real  feet  of  poetry — and  if  it  wasn't  for  the  accomplishments  I'm 
getting,  I'd  let  the  poetry  run  with  all  its  feet.  Just  now,  I  have 
private  lessons  from  the  Marquis  in  the  poetry-business.  The  Mar- 
quis reads  the  poem  and  explains  how  many  feet  there  are  in  it,  and 
then  I  must  note  them  down  and  reckon  up  whether  the  poem  is  all 
right." 

"  You  find  us,"  remarked  the  Marquis  in  didactically  pathetic 
tone,  "  engaged  in  a  truly  poetic  occupation.  I  well  know,  Doctor, 
that  you  belong  to  that  body  of  poets  who  have  ideas  of  their  own, 
and  do  not  perceive  that  in  poetry,  metre  is  the  main  thing.  But  a 
refined  spirit  can  only  express  itself  in  refined  forms,  and  these  are 
only  to  be  learned  from  the  Greeks  and  from  those  modern  poets 
who  strive  to  think  like  Greeks,  feel  like  Greeks,  and  bring  their 
feelings  home,  in  the  Greek  fashion,  to  a  man." 

"To  man,  of  course,  and  not  to  woman,  as  an  unclassic,  romantic 
poet  is  bound  to  do,"  replied  my  Insignificance. 

"  Herr  Gumpel  talks,  now  and  then,  like  a  book,"  wThispered  Hya- 
cinth aside  to  me,  as  he  contracted  his  thin  lips,  winked  his  little 
eyes  with  delighted  pride,  and  significantly  shook  his  small  head, 
whose  every  motion  was  one  of  wondering  amazement.  "I  tell 
you,"  he  continued,  in  somewhat  louder  tones,  "  he  talks  sometimes 
like  a  book,  and  then  he's  what  you  might  call  no  sort  of  a  man  at 
all,  but  a  higher  sort  of  being,  and  1  become  regularly  dumb  the 
nearer  I  come  to  him." 

"  And  what  have  you  there  in  your  hands  ?"  I  inquired  of  the 
Marquis. 

"  Gems,"  he  replied,  laconically,  holding  out  the  book. 

At  the  word  "  gems,"  Hyacinth  leaped  up,  but  when  he  saw  the 
book  smiled  pityingly.  The  precious  gem  in  question  had  on  its 
title-page  the  following  words : 


—    343  — 

POEMS 

OP 

AUGUST,  COUNT  VON  PLATEN. 

6TUTTGABD  AND  TÜEBINGEN  I 
•  PUBLISHED  BY  J.  G.  COTTA. 

1828. 

On  the  blank  leaf  was  neatly  written,  "  A  Gift  of  true  Brotherly 
Friendship." 

Meanwhile,  the  work  smelt  of  a  certain  singular  perfume,  which 
has  not  the  slightest  affinity  with  Eau  de  Cologne,  and  which  was 
perhaps  to  be  attributed  to  the  circumstance  that  the  Marquis  had 
been  reading  in  it  all  night  long. 

"  I  havn't  slept  a  wink  all  night,"  he  complained  to  me.  I  was  so 
severely  worked  that  I  had  to  get  up  eleven  times.  Fortunately,  I 
had  this  glorious  bit  of  reading  by  me,  and  I  got  from  it  not  only 
poetical  instruction,  but  also  sound  consolation  for  life.  Look  !  see 
how  I  honor  the  book !  there  is  not  a  single  leaf  torn  out  of  it,  and 
yet  as  I  sat — you  understand  me — I  was  often  tempted" — 

"You  are  not  the  first,  Herr  Marquis,  who  has  undergone  the 
same  temptation." 

"  I  swear,  sir,  by  our  blessed  Lady  of  Loretto,  and  as  true  as  I'm 
an  honorable  man,  that  these  poems  havn't  their  equal !  You  know 
that  I  was  in  a  state  of  desperation  yesterday  evening — au  desespoir, 
as  one  might  say — because  Fate  forbade  me  to  possess  my  Julia. 
Then  I  read  these  poems — one  every  time  when  I  had  to  get  up — 
and  the  result  has  been,  that  I  feel  as  indifferent  to  women  as  if  not 
one  of  the  creatures  had  ever  existed.  And  that  is  the  beauty  of 
this  poet,  that  he  only  burns  with  warm  feelings — friendship — for 
men.  Yes,  he  prefers  us  to  women  ;  and  for  this  very  preference  we 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  him.  How  much  greater  he  is,  in  this,  than 
common  poets  !  You  do  not  find  him  flattering  the  every  day  tastes 
of  the  masses  :  he  cures  us  of  that  passion  for  women  which  causes 
us  so  much  suffering.  Oh  woman  !  woman  !  what  a  benefactor  to  his 
race  is  that  man  who  frees  us  from  your  chains !  It  is  an  eternal 
shame  that  Shakspeare  never  applied  his  wonderful  theatrical  talent, 
to  this  end  since  he,  as  I  have  just  found  in  these  poems,  was  inspired 
by  the  same  greatness  of  soul  as  the  great  Count  Platen,  who  says, 
in  his  sonnets,  of  Shakspeare  : 

u  A  maid's  caprices  never  broke  thy  slumbers, 
And  yet  for  friendship  still  we  see  thee  yearning; 
From  female  snares,  a  friend  thy  steps  is  turning, 
His  friendship  is  thy  care,  and  fires  thy  numbers." 


-    BU  — 


While  the  Marquis  declaimed  these  rerses  with  enthusiasm,  and 
while  the  moisture  gathered  on  his  tongue,  Hyacinth  was  making  a 
series  of  grimaces  which  were  evidently  inspired  by  anything  but 
assent,  though  they  appeared  partly  to  be  those  of  vexation  and  partly 
of  affirmation,  until  he  at  last  exclaimed — 

"  Herr  Marquis,  you  talk  like  a  book,  and  the  verses  go  out  like  a 
purge,  but  I  don't  like  their  contents  As  a  man,  I  feel  nattered  that 
Count  Platen  gives  us  the  preference,  but,  as  a  friend  to  women,  I 
go  against  such  men.  Such  is  man  !  One  likes  onions,  and  another 
has  the  feeling  for  warm  friendship ;  but  I,  as  an  honest  man,  must 
confess  that  I  prefer  onions,  and  that  a  cross-eyed  cook  maid  is  more 
to  my  taste  than  the  most  beautiful  friend,  such  as  your  poet  talks 
about.  And,  in  fact,  I  must  say,  that  I,  for  one,  can't  begin  to  see 
so  much  beauty  in  the  male  sex  that  one  can  fall  in  love  with  it." 

Hyacinth  spoke  these  last  words  while  giving  a  side  squint  at  his 
own  reflection  in  the  mirror,  as  though  he  were  the  ideal  pattern  of 
manly  perfection.  But  the  Marquis,  without  suffering  himself  to  be 
disturbed  read  on — 

"  'Hope's  foam-built  palaces  may  fall  together, 
We  strive,  yet  do  not  come  at  all  together  ; 
Melodious  from  thy  mouth  my  name  is  ringing, 
And  yet  my  verse  thou  wilt  not  call  together, 
Like  sun  and  moon  must  we  be  ever  parted, 
That  use  and  custom  may  be  all  together? 
Oh  lean  thine  head  on  mine  for  sweet  in  union, 
Thy  dark  locks  and  my  light  ones  fall  together; 
But  ah!  I  dream,  for  lo  I  see  thee  parting 
Ere  joy  has  found  us  in  one  thrall  together; 
Our  souls  are  bleeding  since  our  forms  are  parted, 
Would  we  were  flowers,  oft  bound  and  all  together !'  " 

"Queer  poetry  that !"  exclaimed  Hyacinth,  as  he  re-echoed  tffe 
rhymes,  "  '  Use  and  custom  all  together,'  '  thrall  together '  and  '  fall 
together'!  Queer  poetry!  I've  got  a  cousin  who,  when  he  rends 
poetry,  often  for  fun  puts  'from  before'  and  '  from  behind'  in  turn  at 
the  end  of  every  other  verse,  but  I  declare  I  never  knew  that  the 
poems  he  made  up  that  way  ought  to  be  called  '  Gazelles.'  I  must 
try  myself  and  see  whether  the  verses  which  the  Marquis  has  just 
declaimed  won't  be  improved  by  putting  'from  before'  and  'fiom 
behind,'  in  turn  after  the  'together.'  Depend  upon  it  they'll  be 
twenty  per  cent,  stronger  I" 

Without  attending  to  this  speech,  the  Marquis  drove  ahead  in  Iiis 
declamation  of  "  gazelles  "  and  sonnets,  in  which  the  loving  one  sings 
his  "  friend  of  beauty,"  praises  him,  wails  over  him,  accuses  him  of 


—    345  — 

indifference,  devises  plans  to  attain  him,  ogles  him,  is  jealous  of  him, 
languishes  for  him,  fondles  through  a  whole  scale  of  love-tones  with 
him,  and  that  so  hieltingly,  amorously  and  lecherously,  that  the 
reader  would  suppose  that  the  poet  were  a  maiden  su florin g  with 
nymphomania.  One  thing,  however,  must  seem  to  him,  to  a  certain 
degree  extraordinary,  that  this  maiden  is  always  complaining  that  her 
love  is  contrary  to  the  usual  manner  or  "  custom ;"  that  she  cherishes 
as  intense  a  hatred  of  this  "custom  which  parts,"  as  a  pick-pocket 
could  against  the  police ;  that  in  her  love  she  would  fain  embrace 
the  "  limbs  "  of  her  friend ;  that  she  laments  dolefully  over  envious 
wretches  who  cunningly  part  us,  "to  hinder  us  and  keep  us  ever 
parted;"  that  she  bewails  annoying  personal  afflictions  on  the  part 
of  her  friend;  that  she  assures  him  that  she  will  only  casually  glance 
at  him ;  that  she  protests  that  "  no  single  syllable  shall  shock  thine 
ear,"  and  finally  confesses,  that 

"  My  -wish,  in  others  but  gave  birth  to  strife, 
Thou  hast  not  granted  it,  but  oh!  as  yet 
Thou  hast  not  said  me  nay,  oh  my  STveet  life!" 

I  must  do  the  Marquis  the  justice  to  admit,  that  he  declaimed 
these  verses  well,  sighed  at  full  length  in  repeating  them,  and 
groaned  as  he  slid- along  the  sofa,  as  if  sympathetically  coquetting 
with  the  cushions.  Meanwhile  Hyacinth  continued  to  babble  the 
verses  after  him,  not  omitting  to  interweave  with  them  his  own 
original  chatter.  He  honoured  the  odes  with  the  most  attention. 
"  There's  a  heap  more  to  be  learned,"  quoth  he,  "  from  this  sort  of 
poetry,  than  from  your  sonnets  and  gazelles ;  for  in  the  odes  the  feet 
are  set  down  all  fair  and  square,  and  a  man  can  count  up  every 
poem  nice  and  easy.  Every  poet  ought  to  do  in  his  hardest  poetry- 
verses  like  Count  Platen — that  is,  set  it  down  with  the  feet  up,  and 
say  to  folks,  "  See  here — I'm  an  honourable  man,  one  of  the  kind 
that  don't  cheat,  The  straight  and  crooked  marks  which  I  put 
before  every  poem,  are  what  you  may  call  the  counter-feet*  of  it,  and 
you  may  reckon  up  for  yourself  the  trouble  it  all  cost  me.  In  fact, 
they're  a  kind  of  yard-stick  for  every  poem— take  it  and  measure  'em 
with  it,  and  if  you  find  I  cheat  you  out  of  a  single  syllable,  why  then 

call  me  a  d  *-d  rascal— that's  all !"    But  then  the  public  may  be 

taken  in  just  by  the  honourable  face  he  puts  on  it,  When  the  feet 
are  all  set  down  so  honest-looking  and  plain,  the  reader  '11  say — 
"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  be  one  of  your  suspicious  sort — what's  the 

*  Conto-finio,  a  simulated  account. 


—    346  — 


use  of  counting  after  the  man — I  dare  say  it's  all  right! — I  ain't 
a-going  to  do  it !"  And  he  don't  do  it — and  gets  cheated.  And 
who  can  always  count  'em  up  ?  Now  we're  in  Italy  and  I've  got 
time  to  write  the  feet  on  the  ground  with  chalk,  and  collate  every 
ode.  But  in  Hamburgh,  where  I've  my  business  to  attend  to,  I've 
no  time  for  it,  and  must  take  Count  Platex  without  calling  him  to  an 
account,  just  as  a  man  takes  the  bags  of  money  from  the  treasury  with 
the  number  of  the  dollars  they  hold,  written  on  'em.  They  go  about, 
sealed  up,  from  one  man  to  another,  every  body  takes  it  for  granted 
that  they  hold  as  much  as  the  number  says — and  yet  it  has  hap- 
pened, that  a  man  who  didn't  have  much  to  do  has  opened  one  and 
counted  the  specie,  and  found  it  ran  short  a  few  dollars.  And  there 
may  be  just  the  same  sort  of  swindling  in  poetry.  Particularly  do 
I  mistrust  when  I  think  of  bags  of  money.  For  my  own  brother-in- 
law  has  told  me,  that  in  the  House  of  Correction  at  Odensee,  they've 
got  a  fellow  who  had  some  sort  of  a  situation  in  the  Post  Office,  and 
who  opened  the  specie-bags  that  went  through  his  hands,  and  then 
sewed  'em  up  again  and  forwarded  'em.  "When  one  hears  of  such 
rascality,  he  loses  his  trust  in  fellow-mortals,  and  gets  to  be  a  mis- 
trustful man.  There's  ever  so  much  rascality  in  this  world,  and  I 
suppose  it's  the  same  in  the  poetry  business  as  in  any  other." 

"  Honesty,"  continued  Hyacinth,  while  the  Marquis  declaimed 
on,  all  absorbed  in  feeling  and  without  attending  to  us,  "  Honesty, 
Doctor,  is  the  correct  thing,  and  a  man  who  isn't  honest  I  consider 
as  a  scamp,  and  when  I  consider  a  man  as  a  scamp,  I'll  buy  nothing 
from  him,  read  nothing  of  his,  in  short,  devil  the  bit  of  business  of 
any  sort  will  I  do  with  him.  I'm  a  man,  Doctor,  who  don't  set  my- 
self up  on  any  thing,  but  if  there's  any  thing  I  do  set  myself  up  on, 
it  is  on  doing  the  correct  thing.  If  you've  no  objection,  I'd  like  to 
tell  you  of  a  noble  trait  in  my  character,  and  you'll  be  astonished  at 
it.  I  tell  you  you'll  be  astonished  as  sure  as  I'm  an  honorable  man. 
There's  a  man  lives  in  the  Spear-Place  in  Hamburgh,  and  he's  a 
green-grocer,  and  his  name's  Blocky — that  is  to  say,  I  say  that  his 
name's  Blocky  because  we're  good  friends,  for  his  real  name  is 
Block.  And  his  wife  of  course  is  Madam  Block,  and  she  never 
could  bear  that  her  husband  should  buy  lottery  tickets  of  me  and 
when  he  did,  I  did'nt  dare  to  go  to  his  house  with  'em.  So  he  used 
to  tell  me  in  the  street,  '  I  want  this  or  that  number,  and  here's  the 
money,  Hirsch  !'  And  I'd  say,  '  All  right,  Blocky  !'  And  when  I 
got  home,  I  used  to  lay  the  number  he'd  taken  apart  for  him  under 
cover,  and  write  on  it  in  German  hand,  '  On  account  of  Herr  Chris 


—   347  — 


TiAN  Hin  rich  Block.'  And  now  just  listen  and  be  astonished.  It 
was  a  fine  spring  day  and  the  trees  round  the  Exchange  were  all 
green,  and  the  zephyr  airs  were  nice,  and  the  sun  shone  in  the 
heaven  and  I  stood  by  the  Bank  of  Hamburgh.  And  then  Blocky 
— my  Blocky,  you  know — came  walking  along  with  fat  Mrs.  Blocky 
on  his  arm,  and  was  the  first  to  speak  to  me,  and  spoke  of  the 
Lord's  splendid  Spring,  and  made  some  patriotic  remarks  on  the 
town-guard,  and  asked  me  how  business  was,  and  I  told  him  that  a 
little  while  before  there'd  been  a  chap  in  the  pillory,  and  so  as  we 
talked  he  told  me  that  the  night  before  he'd  dreamed  that  number 
1538  had  drawn  the  grand  prize — and  just  at  that  instant,  while 
Madam  Block  was  looking  at  the  statutes  of  the  Emperors  before 
the  Town-hall,  he  put  thirteen  louis  d'ors,  full  weight,  into  my  hand. 
Lord !  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can  feel  them  now — and  before  Madam 
could  turn  around,  I  said,  '  All  right,  Blocky  !'  and  went  away. 
And  I  went  at  once,  without  stopping,  to  the  head  office  and  got 
number  1538,  and  covered  it  up  as  soon  as  I  was  home,  and  wrote 
on  the  cover,  '  On  account  of  Herr  Christian  Hinrich  Block." 
And  what  did  the  Lord  do  ?  Fourteen  days  later,  to  try  my 
honesty,  he  let  number  1538  turn  up  a  prize  of  fifty  thousand  marks. 
And  what  did  Hirsch  then  do,  the  same  Hirsch  who  now  stands 
before  you  ?  This  Hirsch  put  on  a  clean  white  shirt,  and  a  clean 
white  cravat,  and  took  a  hackney  coach  and  went  to  the  head  office, 
and  drew  his  fifty  thousand  marks  and  rode  with  'em  to  the  Spear- 
Place.- — And  when  Blocky  saw  me,  he  says,  '  Hirsch,  what  are  you 
dressed  up  so  fine  for,  to-day  ?'  I  however  didn't  answer  a  word, 
but  set  a  great  astonishing  bag  of  gold  on  the  table,  and  said,  right 
cheerful  and  jolly,  1  Herr  Christian  Hinrich  Block  ! — number  1538, 
which  you  were  so  kind  as  to  order  of  me,  has  been  so  lucky 
as  to  draw  fifty  thousand  marks.  I  have  the  honor  to  present  you 
that  same  money  in  this  bag,  and  take  the  liberty  of  begging  a  re- 
ceipt for  the  amount !'  When  Blocky  heard  that,  he  began  to  cry  ; 
when  Madame  Block  heard  it,  she  cried  ;  the  fat  red  servant-girl 
cried ;  the  crooked  shop-boy  cried  ;  the  children  cried  ;  and  I  ?  a  man 
of  feelings  as  I  am,  couldn't  cry  at  all,  but  fainted  dead  away,  and  it 
wasn't  till  I  came  to,  that  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes — like  a  river 
— and  I  cried  for  three  hours  !" 

The  voice  of  the  little  man  quivered  as  he  told  this  story,  and  with 
an  air  of  joy  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  packet  I  have  already 
spoken  of,  unrolled  the  faded  rose  silk,  and  showed  me  the  document 
in  which  Herr  Christian  Hinrich  Block  acknowledged  the  receipt 


—    348  — 


of  fifty  thousand  marks.  "  When  I  die,"  said  Hyacinth  with  a  tear 
in  his  eye,  "this  receipt  must  be  buried  with  me,  and  on  the  Judg- 
ment Day,  when  I  must  give  an  account  of  all  my  deeds,  then  I  will 
go  with  this  receipt  in  my  hand  before  the  throne  of  the  Lord,  and 
when  my  Evil  Angel  has  read  off  the  list  of  all  the  evil  deeds  I've 
been  guilty  of,  and  my  good  angel  has  read  off  in  turn  all  my  good 
deeds,  I'll  say,  calm  and  easy,  '  Be  quiet ! — all  I  want  to  know  is  if 
this  receipt  is  correct  ? — is  that  the  handwriting  of  Herr  Christian 
ETinrich  Block  ?'  Then  a  little  angel  will  come  flying  up,  and  he'll 
say  that  he  knows  Block's  hand  perfectly  well,  and  he'll  tell  the 
whole  story  of  the  honorable  business  I  carried  through. — And  the 
Creator  of  Eternity,  the  Almighty,  who  knows  all  things  will  re- 
member it  all  and  he  will  praise  me  before  the  sun,  moon  and  stars, 
and  reckon  up  at  once  in  his  head  that  if  the  value  of  my  evil  deeds 
be  subtracted  from  fifty  thousand  marks,  that  there'll  remain  a  bal- 
ance to  my  account,  and  he'll  say,  *  Hirsch,  you  are  appointed  an 
angel  of  the  first  class,  and  may  wear  wings  with  white  and  red 
feathers.' " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Who  is,  then,  the  Count  Platen,  whom  we  have,  in  the  previous 
chapter,  learned  to  know  as  a  poet  and  warm  friend  ?  Ah !  dear 
reader,  I  have  been  reading  that  very  question  for  a  long  time  in 
your  countenance,  and  it  is  with  a  trembling  heart  that  I  set  about 
answering  it.  The  worst  thing  with  German  authors  is,  that  when- 
ever they  show  up  a  fool,  they  must  beforehand  set  him  forth  in  full, 
by  means  of  wearisome  descriptions  of  character,  and  personal  pe- 
culiarities, firstly,  that  the  reader  may  know  of  his  existence,  and 
secondly,  that  they  may  understand  how,  where,  and  when  the  lash 
cuts — before  or  behind.  It  was  a  different  matter  with  the  ancients, 
and  it  is  still  different  with  some  modern  nations,  for  instance,  the 
F-nglish  and  French,  who  have  a  public  life,  and,  in  consequence,  pub- 
lic characters.  We  Germans,  on  the  contrary,  though  we  have  a 
foolish  enough  public,  have  very  few  fools,  distinguished  enough  to 
be  generally  recognised  as  '  characters,'  when  used  in  prose  or  in 
verse.  The  few  men  of  this  mould  whom  we  possess  are  perfectly 
justifiable  in  giving  themselves  airs  of  importance.  They  are  of  in- 
estimable value,  and  are  entitled  to  the  highest  claim  to  our  conside- 


—    349  — 


ration.  For  instance,  the  TTcrr  Privy  Counsellor  Schmaltz,  Pro- 
fessor at  the  University  of  Berlin,  is  a  man  worth  his  weight  in  gold; 
a  humorous  writer  could  never  do  without  him,  and  he  himself  is  so 
perfectly  conscious  of  his  personal  importance  and  needfulness  that 
he  loses  no  opportunity  to  supply  such  writers  with  material  for 
satire.  For  this  purpose,  therefore,  he  labors  night  and  day,  either 
as  statesman,  civil  villain,  or  civilian,*  deacon,  anti-Hegelian,  and 
patriot,  to  make  himself  as  ridiculous  as  possible,  and  thus  advance 
that  literature  for  which  he  sacrifices  himself.  And  therefore  the 
German  universities  deserve  great  praise,  since  they  supply  us  with 
more  fools  than  any  other  trades- unions,  especially  Goettingen,  which 
I  have  never  failed  to  appreciate,  so  far  as  this  point  is  concerned. 
This  is  the  true  and  secret  reason  why  I  have  always  boldly  advocated 
the  maintenance  of  the  Universities,  even  while  preaching  freedom 
of  exercising  a  trade,  and  recommending  the  abolition  of  the  guilds. 
When  fools  of  note  are  thus  wanting,  the  world  cannot  be  too  grate- 
ful to  me,  should  I  bring  out  a  few  new  ones,  and  render  them  avail- 
able. For  the  advancement  of  literature,  I  will  therefore  now  speak 
more  in  detail  of  Count  August  von  Platen  Hallermunde.  I  will 
so  arrange  it,  that  he  may  be  made  well  enough  known  to  be  useful, 
and  to  a  certain  degree  celebrated,  giving  him,  as  it  were,  a  literary 
fattening,  as  the  Iroquois  are  said  to  do  with  prisoners  who  are  sub- 
sequently devoured  at  their  festivals.  In  this  business,  I  shall  act 
with  all  due  honor  and  courtesy,  as  a  good  citizen  should,  touching 
on  the  material,  or  so-called  personal  interests,  only  so  far  as  they 
are  needed,  to  throw  light  upon  spiritual  phenomena,  always  giving 
the  point  of  view  from  which  I  regarded  him,  and  not  unfrequently 
exhibiting  the  spectacles  wherewith  I  took  my  peep. 

The  point  of  view  from  which  I  first  beheld  Count  Platen,  was 
Munich,  the  scene  of  those  efforts  which  rendered  him  very  celebrated 
among  his  acquaintances,  and  where  he  will  unquestionably  be  im- 
mortal— so  long  as  he  lives.  The  spectacles  with  which  I  saw  him 
belonged  to  certain  inhabitants  of  the  city,  who,  in  their  merry  mo- 
ments, occasionally  indulged  in  merry  remarks  relative  to  his  personal 
appearance.  I  have  never  seen  him  myself,  and  when  I  have  a  fancy 
to  imagine  him,  I  recall  the  droll  rage  with  which  my  friend,  Doctor 
Lautenbacher,  attacked  poetic  folly  in  general,  and  particularly  that 
of  a  certain  Count  Platen,  who,  with  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  his  brow, 
stood  in  an  attitude  of  poetic  inspiration  on  the  public  promenade  at 

*  Servilist  in  the  original  which  I  presume  to  be  a  Rabelisian  "  twist"  of  the  word 
Civilist. — [Note  by  Translator.] 

30 


—    850  — 


Erlangen,  staring,  with  spectacled  nose,  up  at  Heaven.  Others  have 
spoken  better  of  the  poor  Count,  lamenting  only  his  straitened  cir- 
cumstances, which,  as  he  was  very  ambitious  of  honor,  compelled  him 
to  extraordinary  industry,  and  thus  at  least  gave  him  distinction  as  a 
poet.  They  also  praised  his  complaisance  and  courtesy  towards 
younger  people,  with  whom  he  was  modesty  itself,  since  he  only,  in 
the  most  amiable  manner,  begged  their  permission  to  occasionally 
visit  them  in  their  rooms  ;  and  carried  his  kindness  so  far  as  to  call 
again,  even  when  they  had  intimated,  in  the  most  significant  manner, 
that  his  calls  were  no  longer  agreeable.  Such  stories,  of  course, 
moved  my  pity  to  a  certain  extent,  although  I  found  that  his  failures 
in  the  art  of  pleasing  were  very  natural.  In  vain  the  poor  Count 
often  complained  that 

"Thy  beautiful  blonde  youth,  thou  gentle  boy, 
Rejects  a  dismal,  melancholy  friend. 
Well,  then!  my  thoughts  to  jest  and  joke  I'll  lend, 
Instead  of  tears,  which  now  my  spirits  cloy : 
And  for  the  unknown  gift  of  laughing  joy, 
My  earnest  prayers  ere  long  to  Heaven  shall  tend!" 

In  vain  the  poor  Count  declared  that  he  was  destined  to  become 
the  greatest  of  poets ;  that  the  shadow  of  the  laurel  was  already 
visible  on  his  brow,  and  that  he  could  also  make  his  sweet  boys  im- 
mortal, in  poems  which  would  live  forever.  Alas  !  even  this  celebrity 
was  not  acceptable  to  any  one,  nor  was  it,  in  fact,  a  thing  to  be  par- 
ticularly desired.  I  shall  never  forget  the  suppressed  laughter  with 
which  one  of  these  candidates  for  immortality  was  stared  at  by  some 
genial  frieuds,  one  day,  in  the  Arcade  at  Munich.  One  sharp-witted 
knave  even  declared  that  he  could  see  the  reflection  of  a  laurel  wreath 
between  the  coat  tails  of  the  caudidate.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
dear  reader,  I  am  not  so  malicious  as  you  think  ;  I  pity  the  poor 
Count,  and  when  others  mock  him,  I  doubt  whether  he  has  ever  prac- 
tically revenged  himself  on  the  hated  "  custom"  spoken  of,  although 
in  his  songs  he  sighs  for  such  revenge — no,  I  rather  believe  in  the 
repulsive  afflictions,  injurious  disregard,  and  rejections,  of  which  he 
sings  so  plaintively.  I  believe,  in  fact,  that  he  acted  towards  morality 
in  a  far  more  laudable  manner  than  he  was  desirous  of  doing,  and  it 
is  possible  that  he  can  boast,  with  General  Tilly,  "I  was  never 
intoxicated,  never  touched  a  woman,  and  never  lost  a  battle."  It 
was,  beyond  question,  for  this  that  the  poet  says  of  himself  : 


"  Thou  art  a  sober  and  a  modest  youth." 


—    351  — 

Th?  poor  youth,  or  rather  the  poor  old  youth — for  he  had  several 
lustrums  behind  him— once  squatted,  unless  I  err,  at  the  University 
of  Erlangen,  where  some  sort  of  occupation  had  been  allotted  him, 
but  as  this  was  insufficient  for  his  soaring  spirit,  since  with  his  in- 
creasing lustrums  he  lusted  with  greater  lustiness  for  illustrious 
lustre,  and  as  he  day  by  day  felt  himself  more  inspired  with  his  future 
glory,  he  gave  up  his  business,  being  determined  to  live  by  writing, 
by  gifts  from  Heaven  whenever  they  might  turn  up,  and  by  similar 
earnings.  For  the  county  of  the  Count  is  unfortunately  situated  in 
the  moon,  and,  owing  to  the  bad  state  of  the  roads  which  communi- 
cate with  Bavaria,  will  not  (according  to  Gruithuisen's  calculation) 
be  attainable  until  20,000  years  have  elapsed,  after  which  time,  when 
that  planet  approaches  the  earth,  he  will  be  able  to  draw  from  it 
his  enormous  revenues. 

At  an  earlier  period  Don  Platen  De  Collibrados  Haller- 
muxde  had  published  by  Brockhaus  in  Leipsig,  a  collection  of 
poems  with  the  title  of  "  Lyrical  Leaves,  No.  L,"  which  of  course 
met  with  no  success,  although  he  assured  us  in  the  preface  that  the 
Seven  Wise  Men  had  lavished  their  praise  on  the  author.  At  a 
later  date  he  wrote,  in  Tieck's  style,  several  dramatic  legends  and 
stories,  which  also  had  the  fortune  to  remain  hidden  from  the  igno- 
rant multitude  and  were  only  read  by  the  Seven  Wise  Men.  In 
order  to  get  a  few  more  readers  the  Count  applied  himself  to  con- 
troversy, and  wrote  a  satire  against  eminent  writers,  especially 
against  Muellxer,  who  was  already  universally  hated  and  morally 
overthrown,  so  that  the  Count  came  just  in  the  nick  of  time  to  give 
the  dead  Court  Counsellor  Oerixdur,  another  coup  de  grace,  not 
gracefully  however,  but  very  awkwardly  in  the  Falstaffian  manner 
in  the  thigh.  A  dislike  of  Muellxer  inspired  every  noble  heart,  the 
attack  of  the  Count  "took,"  and  "The  Mysterious  and  Terrible 
Fork"  met  here  and  there  with  a  kindly  reception,  not  from  the 
public  at  large  but  among  literati  and  the  regular  school-people — the 
latter  being  pleased  with  the  satire  because  it  was  not  an  imitation 
of  the  romantic  Tieck,  but  of  the  classic  Aristophaxes. 

I  believe  that  it  was  about  this  time  that  the  Count  travelled  to 
Italy,  no  longer  entertaining  a  doubt  but  that  he  would  be  able  to 
live  by  his  poetry.  Cotta  had  indeed  paid  him  the  common  prosaic 
honor  to  pay  him  money  for  his  bill  for  poetry;  for  Poetry,  the 
nobly-born,  never  has  any  money  herself,  and  when  in  difficulties 
always  goes  to  Cotta.  Now  the  Count  versified  day  and  night ;  he 
no  longer  copied  the  patterns  of  Tieck  and  of  Aristophanes,  but 


  or  2   


imitated  first  Goethe  in  ballads,  then  Horace  in  odes,  then 
Petrarch  in  sonnets,  then  Hafiz  in  Persian  gazelles — in  short,  he 
gave  us,  such  as  it  was,  a  selection  of  flowers  of  the  best  poets,  and- 
with  it  his  own  lyrical  leaves,  under  the  title  of  "  Poems  of  Count 
Platen,  &c." 

No  one  in  Germany  is  so  indulgent  as  I  towards  poetic  produc- 
tions, and  I  am  willing  from  my  very  soul  that  a  poor  devil  like 
Platen  should  enjoy  his  bit  of  celebrity  which  he  has  so  bitterly 
earned  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  And  no  one  is  more  willing  to 
praise  Ids  industry,  his  efforts  and  his  poetry,  or  to  recognize  his 
metrical  merits.  My  own  efforts  enable  me  better  than  another  to 
appreciate  those  merits.  The  bitter  labor,  the  indescribable  perse- 
verance, the  chattering  of  teeth  through  weary  winter  nights,  the 
restrained  anger  at  a  fruitless  straining  for  effect,  is  far  more  appar- 
ent to  one  of  us  than  to  the  ordinary  reader  who  supposes  that  the 
smoothness,  neatness  and  polish  of  the  Count's  verses  are  the  effect 
of  ease,  and  who  thanklessly  enjoys  himself  over  the  glittering  play 
of  words,  just  as  spectators  at  the  feats  of  circus  artistes,  when  they 
behold  the  latter  dancing  on  ropes,  hopping  among  eggs,  or  stand- 
ing on  their  heads,  never  reflect  that  the  poor  fellows  have  acquired 
this  pliancy  of  limb  and  poetry  of  motion  only  by  long  years  of  hard 
work  and  bitter  hunger.  I,  who  have  never  worried  myself  so  much 
in  poetry,  and  who  have  always  exercised  it  in  company  with  good 
eating,  esteem  poor  Platen  all  the  more,  since  his  experiences 
have  been  of  such  a  sour  and  sober  nature;  I  will  boast  for  him  that 
no  literary  rope-dancer  in  Europe  can  balance  so  well  as  he  on  slack 
gazelles,  that  no  one  can  perform  so  well  as  he  such  an  egg  dance  as 

w  w  —  www  

w  w  —  w  w  w  w>  &C. 

and  that  no  one  can  stand  so  well  on  his  head.  If  the  muses  are 
not  complaisant  to  him,  he  at  least  has  the  genius  of  our  language 
in  his  power,  or  knows  how  to  clothe  it  with  power.  As  for  win- 
ning the  willing  love  of  the  genius,  it  is  beyond  his  power,  he  must 
perseveringly  run  after  this  youth  as  after  others,  and  his  utmost 
ability  is  to  catch  the  outward  form,  which  despite  its  beautiful 
contour  never  speaks  to  our  soul.  Nevey  did  the  deep  tones  of 
nature,  as  we  find  them  in  popular  song  among  children  and  other 
true  poets,  burst  from  the  soul  of  Platen,  or  bloom  forth  like  an 
apocalypse  from  it  the  desperate  effort  which  ho  is  obliged  to  make 
in  order  to  say  something  he  calls  a  "great  deed  in  words," — for  so 


—    353  — 

utterly  unfamiliar  is  he  with  the  true  spirit  of  poetry,  that  he  does 
not  know  that  the  successful  mastery  of  words  can  only  be  a  great 
deed  for  the  rhetorician;  for  the  true  poet  it  should  be  a  natural 
occurrence.  Unlike  the  true  poet,  language  was  never  yet  his  mas- 
ter ;  on  the  contrary,  he  has  become  master  of  it,  playing  on  it  as  a 
virtuoso  plays  on  an  instrument.  The  more  he  advanced  in  this 
mechanical  facility,  the  higher  opinion  did  he  form  of  his  own  powers 
of  performance;  he  learned  how  to  play  in  every  manner  and  metre; 
he  versified  even  the  most  difficult  passages,  often  poetising,  so  to 
speak,  on  the  G  string,  and  was  vexed  when  the  public  did  not 
applaud.  Like  all  virtuosi  who  have  developed  this  sort  of  single- 
string  talent,  he  only  exerted  himself  for  applause,  regarding  with 
anger  the  celebrity  of  others.  He  envied  his  colleagues  all  that  they 
gained,  as  for  instance,  when  he  fired  five-act  pasquinades  at  Clausen 
at  a  time  when  he  could  not  attract  more  than  a  mere  poetic  squib 
at  himself;  he  laid  a  strong  hand  on  every  review  in  which  others 
were  praised,  and  cried  without  ceasing,  "I  am  not  sufficiently 
praised,  I  am  not  sufficiently  praised,  for  I  am  the  poet,  the  poet  of 
poets,"  &c.  Such  a  hunger  and  thirst  for  praise,  and  for  alms,  was 
never  yet  shown  by  a  true  poet,  by  Klopstock  or  by  Goethe,  to 
whose  companionship  Count  Platen  has  appointed  himself,  although 
any  one  can  see  that  he  justly  forms  a  triumvirate  only  with  Aug. 
Wilhelm  von  Schlegel,  and  perhaps  with  Ramler.  "  The  great 
Ramler,"  as  he  was  called  in  his  own  time,  when  he,  without  a 
laurel-crown,  it  is  true,  but  with  all  the  greater  cue  and  hair-bag, 
with  his  eyes  raised  to  Heaven,  and  with  a  canvass  umbrella  under 
his  arm,  wandered  scanning  about  in  the  Berlin  Thiergarten ;  believed 
himself  to  be  the  representative  of  poetry  on  earth.  His  verses 
were  the  most  perfect  in  the  German  language,  and  his  adorers, 
among  whom  even  a  Lessing  went  astray,  believed  that  poetry  could 
go  no  further.  Such,  at  a  late  date,  was  almost  the  case  with  Aug. 
Wilhelm  von  Schlegel,  whose  poetical  insufficiency  became  mani- 
fest as  the  language  was  more  fully  developed,  so  that  many  who 
once  looked  upon  the  singer  of  Arion  as  an  Arion  himself,  now  re- 
gard him  merely  as  a  school-master  of  some  ability.  But  whether 
Count  Platen  is  as  yet  qualified  to  laugh  at  the  otherwise  really 
great  Schlegel,  as  the  latter  once  laughed  at  Ramler,  I  cannot 
take  it  on  me  to  say.  But  this  I  do  know,  that  they  are  all  three 
on  a  par  in  poetry,  and  though  Count  Platen,  in  his  gazelles,  dis- 
plays ever  so  exquisitely  his  juggling  arts  of  balance;  though  he 
executes  his  egg-dance  ever  so  admirably,  and  if  he,  in  his  plays,  even 

30* 


—    354  — 


stands  on  his  head — he  is  not  for  all  that  a  poet."  "  He  is  no  poet," 
pay  the  ungrateful  youths  whom  he  so  tenderly  sings.  "  He  is  no 
poet,"  respond  the  ladies,"  who  perhaps  (I  must  say  this  at  least 
in  his  behalf)  are  not  altogether  impartial  judges  in  the  matter, 
and  who,  from  the  penchant  which  they  detect  in  him,  are  either 
jealous  or  fearful  that  the  tendency  of  his  poems  is  such  as  to 
endanger  their  hitherto  favourable  position  in  society.  Severe 
critics,  who  wear  first-class  spectacles,  add  their  voice  to  this  ver- 
dict, or  express  themselves  with  more  laconic  significance.  "  What 
do  you  find  in  the  poems  of  the  Count  Platen  von  Hallermunde?" 
I  recently  asked  such  a  man.  "I  find  bottom!" was  the  reply. *  "You 
refer  to  the  fundamental  and  laborious  character  of  his  style?"  I 
replied.    "  No,"  said  he,  "  I  refer  also  to  the  subject  matter." 

As  regards  this  subject  matter  of  the  Platen  poems,  it  is  one 
which  I  cannot  honestly  praise,  and  yet  I  cannot  unconditionally 
assent  to  the  furious  disapprobation  with  which  our  Catos  speak  of 
Ihem — or  are  silent !  Ckacun  a  son  gout,  the  one  loves  an  ox,  the 
other  Waschischta's  cow.  I  even  blame  the  terrible  Rhadamanthine 
seriousness  with  which  this  subject  matter  of  the  Platen  poems  is 
made  in  turn  the  subject  of  scientific  criticism  in  the  Berlin  annuals. 
But  such  are  men,  and  so  easy  do  they  find  it  to  fall  in  a  rage,  when 
speaking  of  sins  which  they've  no  mind  to.  I  recently  read,  in  the 
Morgenblatle,  an  article  entitled  "  From  the  Journal  of  a  Pteader,"  in 
which  Count  Platen  expressed  himself  against  those  who  so  severely 
blame  his  "  friendship-love,"  with  that  modesty  which  is  his  distin- 
guishing characteristic,  and  by  which  his  style  may  be  readily  recog- 
nised in  the  article  referred  to.  When  he  says  that  the  "  Hegelian 
Weekly  Journal"  accuses  him,  with  "  laughable  pathos,"  of  a  secret 
vice,  he  then,  as  the  reader  will  infer,  simply  anticipates  the  censure 
of  people,  whose  opinion  he  has  ascertained  from  others.  He 
has,  however,  been  wrongly  informed  ;  in  this  light,  the  pathetic 
shall  never  be  found  fault  with  by  me ;  the  noble  Count  is  to  me  rather 
an  agreeable  subject,  and  in  his  noble  penchant  I  only  behold  some- 
thing anachronistic,  or  a  timid  and  bashful  parody  of  an  antique  excess 
of  passion.  And  here  we  hit  the  nail  on  the  head — in  ancient  times, 
that  taste  was  in  accordance  with  the  manner  of  the  age,  and  showed 
itself  with  heroic  openness.  As,  for  instance,  when  the  Emperor 
Nero,  on  vessels  of!  gold  and  ivory,  held  a  banquet  which  cost  mil- 
lions, and,  amid  public  festivities,  married,  from  out  his  seraglio  of 
youths,  one  named  Pythagoras,  (cuncta  denique  spectata  quce  etiam 

[*  Sitzfleisch !  war  die  Antwort.] 


—    355  — 

mfemina  nox  operit,)  and  afterwards  fired  Eome  with  the  wedding- 
torch,  that  he  might,  by  the  roaring  flames,  the  better  sing  the  Fall 
of  Troy.  He  was  a  gazelle  poet,  of  whom  I  would  speak  with 
pathos  ;  but  I  can  only  smile  at  the  modern  Pythagorean,  who  in  the 
Rome  of  the  present  day,  meanly,  and  soberly  and  anxiously  sneaks 
among  the  paths  of  friendship,  his  blonde  countenance  simply  dis- 
gusting the  loveless  youths,  and  who  afterwards,  by  the  light  of  a 
wretched  oil  lamp,  sighs  forth  his  gazelles.  From  such  a  point  of 
view,  it  is  interesting  to  compare  the  poems  of  Platen  with  those  of 
Petronius.  In  the  latter  we  see  straight-forward,  antique,  plastic, 
heathen  nakedness ;  but  Count  Platen,  despite  his  boasting  of  the 
classic  style,  rather  treats  his  subject  in  a  manner  which  is  altogether 
romantic,  deeply  yearning,  and  priestlike — nay,  and  I  must  add,  even 
hypocritical.  For  the  Count  frequently  masks  himself  in  pious  feel- 
ings, he  evades  every  indication  of  the  sex  ;  only  the  initiated  are  to 
understand  his  meaning;  he  believes  that  he  has  sufficiently  blinded 
the  multitude  when  he  occasionally  lets  the  word  "  friend"  slip  out ; 
and  it  is  with  him  as  with  the  ostrich,  which  believes  itself  to  be  well 
enough  hidden  when  its  head  is  stuck  in  the  sand,  although  the  tail 
is  plaiuly  visible.  Our  illustrious  and  noble  bird  would  have  done 
better  had  he  hidden  his  tail,  and  shown  us  his  head  more  openly.  In 
fact,  he  is  rather  a  man  of  tail  than  a  man  of  "  head."  The  name 
man  is  altogether  unsuitable  for  him  ;  his  love  has  a  passive,  Pytha- 
gorean character  ;  he  is  a  pathic  in  his  poems  ;  he  is  a  woman,  and 
one,  at  that,  who  has  a  lewd  passion  for  her  own  sex — in  fact,  a  male 
iribade.  This  anxious,  pliant,  submissive  nature,  glides  through  all  his 
love-poems  ;  he  is  always  finding  some  new  "friend  in  beauty ;"  in  all 
his  verses  we  discover  polyandria,  and  even  when  he  sentimalises — 

"  Thou  loT'st  in  silence— would  that  it  had  bound  me  ! 
That  I  had  only  east  on  thee  my  glances ! 
ITad  I,  with  word?.  ne*er  made  the  first  advances, 
These  anxious  sorrows  had  not  twined  around  me. 
And  yet  I  would  not  be  as  love  first  found  me ! 
Woe  to  the  day  which  coldly  ends  its  chances! 
'Tis  from  that  realm  where,  lost  in  raptured  trances, 
Blest  angels  mingle." 

— we  at  once  think  of  the  angels  who  came  to  Lot,  the  son  of  Haran, 
and  who  only  escape  d  with  difficulty  and  effort  the  most  rapturous 
trances,  as  we  read  in  the  books  of  Moses,  where,  unfortunately,  the 
sonnets  and  gazelles  which  were  sung  before  Lot's  door,  are  not 
recorded.  Everywhere,  in  Platen's  poems,  we  see  the  ostrich,  which 
only  hides  its  head,  the  vain,  weak  bird,  which  has  the  most  beautiful 


—    356  — 


plumage,  and  yet  cannot  fly ;  and  which,  ever  quarrelsome,  stumbles 
along  over  the  polemic  sandy  desert  of  literature.  With  his  -fine 
feathers,  without  the  power  to  soar,  with  his  fine  verse,  without 
poetic  flight,  he  is  the  very  opposite  to  that  eagle  of  song  who,  with 
less  brilliant  wings,  still  rises  to  the  sun.  I  must  return  to  my  old 
refrain ;  Count  Platen  is  no  poet. 

Two  things  are  required  of  every  poet ;  that  there  should  be 
natural  tones  in  his  lyric  poems,  and  characters  in  his  epic  or  dra- 
matic productions.  If  he  cannot  legitimately  establish  himself  on 
these  points,  he  must  lose  his  title  as  poet,  although  all  his  other 
family-papers  and  diplomas  of  nobility  are  in  perfect  order.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  the  last  is  the  case  with  Count  Platen,  and  I  am 
convinced  that  he  would  only  deign  a  smile  of  pityiug  sorrow  to  any 
one  who  should  attempt  to  cast  doubt  on  his  title  as  Count.  But 
dare  to  so  much  as  level  a  couplet  at  his  poetic  title,  and  he  will  at 
once  set  himself  down  and  publish  five  act  satires  against  you.  The 
want  of  natural  chords  in  the  poems  of  the  Count  is  the  more  touch- 
ing from  the  fact  that  he  lives  in  an  age  when  he  dare  not  so  much 
as  name  his  real  feelings,  when  the  current  morality  which  is  so 
directly  opposed  to  his  Iovp,  even  forbids  him  to  openly  express  his 
sorrows,  and  when  he  must  anxiously  and  painfully  disguise  every 
sentiment  for  fear  of  offending  by  so  much  as  a  single  syllable  the 
ear  of  the  public  as  well  as  that  of  the  "  disdainful  and  beautiful 
one."  This  constant  fear  suppresses  every  natural  chord  in  him— it 
condemns  him  to  metrically  labor  away  at  the  feelings  of  other  poets 
which  have  already  passed  muster  as  acceptable,  and  which  must  of 
necessity  be  used  to  cloak  his  own  conceptions.  It  may  be  that 
wrong  is  done  him  when,  those  Avho  understand  such  unfortunate 
situations  assert  that  Count  Platen  is  desirous  of  showing  himself 
as  Count  in  poetry  and  of  holding  in  it  to  his  nobility,  and  that  he 
consequently  only  expresses  the  feelings  of  such  well-known  families 
as  have  their  sixty-four  descents.  Had  he  lived  in  the  days  of  the 
Roman  Pythagoras,  it  may  be  that  he  would  have  expressed  these 
feelings  more  openly  and  perhaps  have  passed  for  a  true  poet.  Then 
natural  chords  at  least  would  not  have  been  missed  in  his  lyric 
poems — albeit  the  want  of  characters  in  his  dramas  must  ever  have 
remained,  at  least  until  he  changed  his  moral  nature  and  became  an 
altogether  different  man.  The  forms  of  which  I  speak  are  those 
independent  creatures  which  spring  perfect  and  fully  armed  from  the 
creative  power  of  the  poet,  as  Pallas  Athene  sprang  from  the  head 
of  Kronion — living  dream-forms  whose  mystic  birth  stands,  far  more 


—    357  — 


than  is  imagined,  in  active  relation  with  the  mental  and  moral  nature 
of  the  poet — a  spiritual  production  denied  to  the  one  who,  a  mere 
fruitless  creature,  vanishes  gazelle-like  in  his  windy  weakness. 

These  are,  however,  after  all,  only  the  private  opinions  of  a  poet 
and  their  importance  depends  on  the  degree  of  credit  which  is  ac- 
corded them.  But  I  cannot  avoid  mentioning  that  Count  Platen 
has  often  assured  the  public  that  in  days  as  yet  to  come  he  will  com- 
pose the  most  remarkable  poetry  of  which  no  one  has  as  yet  even  a 
presentiment,  yes,  and  that  he  will  publish  Iliads  and  Odyssies  and 
classic  tragedies,  and  similar  immortally  colossal  poems,  after  he  has 
toiled  so,  or  so  many  lustrums.  Reader,  you  have  perhaps  read 
some  of  these  outpourings  of  self-consciousness  in  his  laboriously 
filed  verses,  and  the  promise  of  such  a  glorious  future  was  probably 
the  pleasanter  to  you,  when  the  Count  at  the  same  time  represented 
all  the  cotemporary  German  poets,  with  the  exception  of  the  aged 
Goethe,  as  a  set  of  nasty  wretches  who  only  stood  in  his  way  on  the 
path  to  immortality,  and  who  were  so  devoid  of  shame  as  to  pluck 
the  laurels  and  the  praise  which  of  right  belonged  to  him  alone. 

I  will  pass  over  what  I  heard  in  Munich  on  this  theme  ;  but  for 
the  sake  of  chronology  I  must  mention  that  it  was  at  this  time  that 
the  King  of  Bavaria  announced  his  intention  of  bestowing  on  some 
German  poet  a  pension  without  any  attendant  official  duties ;  an 
unusual  example  which  might  have  the  happiest  result  on  the  entire 
literature  of  Germany.    I  was  told — 

But  I  will  not  quit  my  theme  ;  I  spoke  of  the  vain  boasting  of 
Count  Platen,  who  continually  cried  : — I  am  the  poet,  the  poet  of 
poets  !  I  shall  yet  write  Iliads  and  Odyssies,  <fcc,  &c.  I  know  not 
what  the  public  thinks  of  such  boasting  but  I  know  right  well  what 
a  poet  thinks  of  them — that  is  to  say,  a  true  poet  who  has  felt  the 
ashamed  sweetness  and  the  secret  trembling  of  poetry,  and  who  like 
a  happy  page  who  enjoys  the  secret  favors  of  a  princess,  most 
assuredly  will  not  boast  of  them  in  the  public  market  place. 

Not  unfrequently  has  the  Count  for  thus  puffing  himself  up,  been 
soundly  taken  down,  yet  like  Falstaffhe  always  knew  how  to  excuse 
himself.  He  has  for  such  excuses  a  useful  talent  which  is  peculiarly 
his  own  and  one  deserving  special  mention.  It  lies  in  this  that 
Count  Platen  who  is  familiar  with  every  failing  in  his  own  breast  is 
also  quick  at  recognizing  the  faintest  trace  of  kindred  faults  in  any 
great  man,  and  is  not  less  prompt  on  the  strength  of  this  elective 
affinity  of  vice  to  institute  a  comparison  between  the  other  and  him- 
self.   Thus,  for  instance,  having  observed  that  Shakespeare's  son- 


—    358  — 


nets  are  addressed  to  a  young  man  and  not  to  a  woman,  he  at  once 
praises  Shakespeare  for  choosing  so  rationally,  compares  himself 
with  him — and  that  is  all  which  he  has  to  say  of  him.  One  might 
negatively  write  an  apology  for  Count  Platen  and  assert  that  he 
has  not  as  yet  developed  this  or  that  failing  because  he  has  not  as 
yet  compared  himself  with  this  or  that  great  man  who  has  been 
reputed  guilty  of  them.  Most  genial,  however,  and  amazing  did  he 
show  himself  in  the  choice  of  one  in  whose  life  he  discovered  speeches 
void  of  modesty,  and  by  whose  example  he  fain  would  lend  a  color 
to  his  own  boasting.  In  fact,  the  words  of  this  man  as  establishing 
such  a  point,  have  not  been  cited — for  it  was  none  other  than  Jesus 
Christ  himself,  who  has  hitherto  always  been  taken  for  the  pattern 
of  meekness  and  humility.  Christ  once  boasted  !  the  most  humble 
of  mankind,  and  the  more  humble — since  he  was  the  divinest?  Yes 
— what  has  escaped  all  theologians  was  discovered  by  Count  Platen, 
for  be  insinuates  that  Christ,  when  he  stood  before  Pilate,  was  not 
humble  nor  did  he  answer  humbly,  for  when  the  latter  asked  him 
11  Art  thou  the  King  of  the  Jews  ?"  he  answered,  "  Thou  sayest  it." 
And  so  says  he,  the  Count  Platen  :  "I  am  he,  I  am  the  Poet !" — 
"What  the  hate  of  one  who  scorned  Christ  never  as  yet  effected, 
was  brought  to  pass  by  the  exegesis  of  self-enamored  vanity. 

As  we  know  what  we  should  think  when  any  one  thus  cries  with- 
out intermission :  "  I  am  the  Poet !"  so  we  also  understand  the 
affinity  which  it  has  to  the  immensely  remarkable  poems  which  the 
Count,  when  he  has  attained  due  ripeness,  intends  to  write,  and 
which  are  to  surpass  in  such  an  unheard  of  manner  all  his  previous 
performances.  We  know  well  enough  that  the  later  works  of  a  true 
poet  are  no  more  superior  to  his  first  than  the  later  children  to 
which  a  woman  gives  birth  are  superior  to  her  first  born — although 
the  bearing  them  is  easier.  The  lioness  does  not  first  bring  forth  a 
puppy,  then  a  hare,  then  a  hound  and  finally  a  lion.  Madame 
Goethe,  at  her  first  birth  brought  forth  her  young  lion,  and  he  in 
turn  at  the  first  throw,  gave  us  his  lion  of  Berlichingen.  Even  so 
did  Schiller  bring  forth  his  "  Robbers,"  whose  claws  at  once 
showed  the  lion  breed.  At  a  later  date  came  the  polish  and  re- 
finement and  finish  in  the  "Natural  Daughter"  and  the  "  Bride  of 
Messina."  It  was  not  thus  with  Count  Platen,  who  began  with 
anxious  and  elaborate  art,  and  of  whom  the  poet  sings  : — 

"  Thou  who  from  naught  so  lightly  did'st  advance, 
With  thy  smooth  licked  and  lackered  countenance, 
Like  some  toy-puppet  neatly  carved  from  cork." 


—    359  — 

Yet  should  I  speak  out  the  very  thought  of  my  soul,  I  would  con- 
fess that  I  by  no  means  regard  Count  Platen  as  the  extraordinary 
fool  which  one  would  take  him  to  be  from  his  boasting  and  incessant 
burning  of  incense  before  his  own  shrine.  A  little  folly,  it  is  well 
known,  always  accompanies  poetry,  but  it  would  be  terrible  if 
Nature  should  burden  a  single  man  with  such  an  incredible  quantity 
of  folly  as  would  suffice  for  a  hundred  poets,  and  give  him  therewith 
such  an  insignificant  dose  of  poetry.  I  have  reason  to  suspect  that 
the  Count  does  not  believe  in  his  own  boasting,  and  that  he,  poverty- 
stricken  in  life  as  in  literature,  is  compelled  in  literature  as  in  life  by 
the  needs  of  the  instant,  to  be  his  own  self-praising  Ritffiano. 
Hence  the  phenomena  of  which  one  might  say  that  they  have 
rather  a  psychological  than  an  aesthetic  interest ;  hence  the  joint 
company  of  the  most  lamentable  somnambulism  of  the  soul  and 
affected  excess  of  pride,  hence  the  miserable  little  deeds  with  a 
speedy  death  and  the  threatened  big  deeds  with  then  future  immor- 
tality ;  hence  the  high  flashing  beggarly  pride,  and  the  languishing 
slavish  submissiveness ;  hence  the  unceasing  cry  that  "  Cotta  lets 
him  starve,"  and  again  that  "  Cotta  lets  him  starve,"  hence  the 
paroxysms  of  Catholicism,  &c,  &c. 

Whether  the  Count  is  in  earnest  with  all  his  Catholicism,  is  to  me 
a  matter  of  doubt.  Nor  do  I  know  whether  he  has  become  especially 
Catholic,  like  certain  of  his  high-born  friends.  That  he  intended  to 
do  so,  first  came  to  my  knowledge  from  the  public  papers,  wherein 
it  was  even  stated  that  Count  Platen  wa.s  about  to  become  a  monk 
and  retire  to  a  monastery.  Scandal-mongers  were  of  the  opinion, 
that  the  vows  of  poverty  and  of  abstinence  from  women  would  not,  in 
his  case,  present  any  remarkable  difficulties.  Of  course  when  this 
news  was  heard  in  Munich,  the  pious  chimes  rang  loudly  in  the 
hearts  of  his  friends.  His  poems  were  praised  with  Kyrie  Eleison 
and  Hallelujah  in  the  priestly  papers  ;  and,  indeed,  the  holy  disciples 
of  coelibacy  must  have  greatly  rejoiced  over  those  poems  in  which 
all  are  so  strongly  recommended  to  refrain  from  contact  with  the 
female  sex.  My  poems  unfortunately  have  a  directly  opposite  ten- 
dency, and  it  might  indeed  concern  me  greatly,  but  ought  not  to 
astonish  me,  that  priests  and  singers  of  boys  are  not  interested  in 
them.  And  quite  as  little  was  I  astonished  when  the  day  before 
my  departure  for  Italy,  I  learned  from  my  friend,  Doctor  Kolb,  that 
Count  Platen  was  very  inimically  disposed  towards  me,  and  that 
he  had  already  prepared  my  utter  annihilation  in  a  comedy,  entitled 
King  CEdijpus,  which  in  Augsburg  had  got  into  the  hands  of  certain 


—    360  — 

princes  and  counts,  whose  names  I  have  either  forgotten  or  shah 
forget.  Others  also  told  me  that  Count  Platen  hated  me,  assuming 
the  position  of  an  enemy  towards  me ; — and  I  would  much  prefer  to 
have  it  reported  that  Count  Platen  hated  me  to  my  face,  than  that 
he  loved  me  behind  my  bade.  As  for  the  holy  men  whose  holy 
hatred  burst  out  at  the  same  time  against  me,  and  which  was  in- 
spired, not  only  by  my  anti-ccelibatic  poems,  but  also  by  the  Political 
Annals  which  I  then  published,  it  is  evident  enough  that  I  could 
only  gain  when  it  became  evident  enough  that  I  was  none  of  their 
party.  And  when  I  here  intimate  that  nothing  good  is  said  of  them, 
it  does  not  follow  that  I  speak  evil  of  them.  I  am  even  of  the 
opinion  that  they,  purely  out  of  love  for  what  is  good,  seek  to 
weaken  the  words  of  the  Evil  One  by  pious  deception,  and  by  slan- 
der pleasing  to  the  Lord.  Those  good  people  who,  in  Munich, 
presented  themselves  publicly  as  a  congregation,  have  been  foolishly 
honoured  with  the  title  of  Jesuits.  They  are  in  faith  no  Jesuits,  or 
they  would  have  seen  for  example  that  of  all  men,  I — one  of  the  bad- 
least  understand  the  literary  alchemic  art,  by  which,  as  in  a  mental 
mint,  1  strike  ducats  out  of  my  enemies,  and  that  in  such  a  manner,  that 
I  retain  the  ducats  while  my  foes  get  the  blows.  They  would  have 
seen,  too,  that  such  blows,  with  their  impressions,  lose  nothing  of 
their  value,  even  when  the  name  of  the  mint-master  is  worn  away ; 
and  that  a  wretched  criminal  does  not  feel  the  lash  the  less  severely, 
though  the  hangman  who  lays  it  on  be  declared  dishonourable.  But 
— and  this  is  the  chief  point — they  would  have  seen  that  a  slight 
prepossession  for  the  anti-aristocratic  Voss,  and  a  few  merry  vergings 
towards  jokes  on  the  Virgin  Mary,*  for  which  they  pelted  me  with 
filth  and  stupidity,  did  not  proceed  from  any  anti-catholic  zeal.  In 
truth  they  are  no  Jesuits,  but  only  mixtures  of  filth  and  of  stupidity, 
whom  I  am  no  more  capable  of  hating,  than  I  do  a  manure  wagon 
and  the  oxen  which  draw  it,  and  who,  with  all  their  efforts,  only 
reach  the  very  opposite  of  what  they  intended,  and  can  only  bring 
me  to  this  point,  that  I  show  them  how  Protestant  I  am;,  that  1 
exercise  my  good  Protestant  right  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  swing 
around  the  good  Protestant  battle-axe  with  a  right  good  will.  To 
win  over  the  multitude,  they  may  have  the  old  women's  tales  of  my 
unbelief  repeated  by  their  poet  laureate  as  much  as  they  please — but 
by  the  well-known  blows  they  shall  recognise  the  fellow-believer  with 
Luther,  Lessing  and  Voss.  Of  course  I  could  not  swing  the  old 
axe  with  the  earnestness  of  these  heroes — for  I  burst  into  laughter 

*  Muttirgotksvritze. 


—    3G1  — 


at  the  sight  of  such  enemies,  and  I  have  a  bit  of  the  Eulenspiegel 
nature  in  me,  and  love  a  seasoning  of  jokes — and  yet  I  would  not 
rap  those  manure  oxen  less  soundly  although  I  beforehand  wreathe 
my  axe  with  smiling  flowers. 

But  I  will  not  wander  from  my  subject.  I  believe  that  it  was 
about  the  time  in  question  that  the  Kiug  of  Bavaria,  from  the  motives 
alluded  to,  gave  to  Count  Platen  an  annual  pension  of  six  hundred 
florins,  and  that  indeed,  not  from  the  public  treasury,  but  from  his 
own  royal  private  purse,  this  being  requested  by  the  Count  as  an 
especial  favor.  I  mention  this  circumstance,  trifling  as  it  seem, 
(since  it  characterizes  the  caste  of  the  Count,)  for  the  benefit  of  the 
investigator  into  the  secrets  of  nature,  and  who  perhaps  studies  the 
aristocracy.  Every  thing  is  of  importance  to  science,  and  let  him 
who  would  reproach  me  for  devoting  myself  too  seriously  to  Count 
Platen,  go  to  Paris,  and  see  with  what  care  the  accurate,  exquisite 
Cuvter,  in  his  lectures,  describes  the  filthiest  insect  even  to  the 
minutest  particulars.  I  even  regret  that  I  cannot  more  accurately 
determine  the  date  of  those  six  hundred  and  forty  florins  ;  but  this 
much  I  know  that  it  was  subsequent  to  the  composition  of  "  King 
CEdipus"  and  that  the  play  would  not  have  been  so  biting  if  its 
author  had  had  something  more  to  bite. 

It  was  in  North  Germany,  where  I  was  suddenly  called  by  the 
death  of  my  father,  that  I  first  received  the  monstrous  creation 
winch  had  finally  crept  from  the  great  egg  over  which  our  beautifully 
plumed  ostrich  had  so  long  brooded,  and  which  had  been  greeted 
long  in  advance  by  the  night-owls  of  the  congregation  with  pious 
croaking,  and  by  the  noble  peacocks  with  joyful  spreading  of  plumes. 
It  was  to  be  at  least  a  destroying  basilisk — dear  reader,  do  you 
know  what  the  legend  of  the  basilisk  is  ?  People  say,  that  when  a 
male  bird  lays  an  egg  after  the  manner  of  the  female,  that  a  poison- 
ous creature  is  hatched  from  it  whose  breath  poisons  the  air,  and 
which  can  only  be  destroyed  by  holding  a  mirror  before  it,  in  which 
case  it  dies  from  terror  at  its  own  ugliness. 

Sacred  sorrows  which  I  would  not  profane,  first  permitted  me,  two 
months  later,  when  visiting  the  watering  place  Helgoland,  to  read 
"  King  CEdipus,"  and  there,  raised  to  a  lofty  state  of  mind  by  the 
continual  aspect  of  the  great,  bold  sea  ;  the  petty  narrow  thoughts 
and  the  literary  botching  of  the  high-born  writer,  were  to  me  visible 
enough.  I  saw  him  at  length  in  that  master-work  exactly  as  he  is, 
with  all  his  blooming  decay,  all  his  copiousness  of  want  of  spirit, 
all  his  vain  imaginings  without  imagination,  a  writer,  forced  without 

31 


—    362  — 


force,  piqued  without  being  piquant,  a  dry  watery  soul,  a  dismal  de- 
bauchee. This  troubadour  of  misery,  weakened  in  body  and  in 
soul,  sought  to  imitate  the  most  powerful,  the  richest  in  fancy  and 
most  brilliant  poets  of  the  young  Grecian  world  !  Nothing  is  really 
more  ropulsive  than  this  cramp-racked  inability  which  would  fain 
puff  itself  up  into  the  likeness  of  bold  strength,  these  wearily  col- 
lected invectives,  foul  with  the  mouldiness  of  ancient  spite,  and  this 
painfully  labored  imitation  of  delirious  rapture,  trembling  through- 
out at  syllables  and  trifles.  As  a  matter  of  course  there  is  nowhere 
in  the  Count's  work  the  trace  of  an  idea  of  a  deep  world-annihilation 
such  as  lies  darkling  at  the  base  of  every  Aristophanic  comedy,  and 
from  which  the  latter  shoots  like  a  phantastic  ironic  magic  tree 
rich  in  the  blooming  garniture  of  flowers  of  thought,  bearing  amid  its 
branches  nests  of*  singing  nightingales  and  capering  apes.  Such  an 
idea,  with  the  death  merriment  and  the  fireworks  of  destruction 
which  it  involves,  cannot  of  course  be  anticipated  from  the  poor 
Count.  The  central  point,  the  first  and  last  idea,  ground  and  aim 
of  his  so  called  comedy,  consists,  as  in  the  "  Mysterious  and  Terrible 
Fork"  of  petty  literary  managing;  the  poor  Count  indeed  could 
only  imitate  a  few  of  the  external  traits  of  Aristophanes  —  the 
dainty  verses  and  the  vulgar  words.  I  say  vulgar  words,  not  wish- 
ing to  use  any  vulgar  expression  myself.  Like  a  brawling  woman, 
he  casts  whole  flower-pots  of  abuse  on  the  heads  of  the  German 
poets.  I  heartily  forgive  the  Count  his  spite,  but  he  should  have 
guarded  against  a  few  oversights.  He  should  at  least  have  honored 
our  sex,  since  we  are  not  women  but  men  and  consequently  belong 
to  a  sex  which  is  in  his  opinion  the  fair  sex,  and  which  he  so  dearly 
loves.  In  this  he  manifests  a  lack  of  delicacy,  and  many  a  youth 
will  in  consequence  doubt  the  sincerity  of  his  homage,  since  every 
one  must  feel  that  he  who  loves  truly,  honours  the  whole  sex.  The 
singer  Frauenlob  was  undoubtedly  never  rude  to  a  lady  and  a 
1'laten  should  show  more  regard  towards  men.  But  the  indelicate 
wretch  !  he  tells  the  public  without  reserve  that  we  poets  in  North 
Germany  have  all  "the  itch,  giving  us  cause,  alas  !  to  use  a  salve,  in 
filthy  scent  peculiarly  rich."  The  rhyme  is  good.  But  he  handles 
Immermann  the  most  rudely.  In  the  very  beginning  of  his  poem  he 
makes  the  poet  do  something  which  I  dare  not  describe,  behind  a 
screen,  and  yet  which  cannot  be  disproved.  I  even  deem  it  very 
probable  that  Immermann  has  more  than  once  done  such  things. 
But  it  is  characteristic  of  the  imagination  of  Count  Platen  that  it 
always  induces  him  to  attack  his  enemies  a  posteriori.    He  did  not 


—    363  — 

even  spare  Houwald,  that  good  soul,  soft-hearted  as  a  maiden — ah  1 
perhaps  it  is  on  account  of  this  gentle  womanlikeness,  that  a 
Platen  hates  him.  Muellner,  whom  he,  as  he  says,  "long  since  by 
real  wit  laid  low  deprived  of  force,"  rises  again  like  a  dead  man  from 
the  grave.  Child  and  child's  child  are  not  spared  in  their  rights. 
Raupach  is  a  Jew — 

"  The  small  Jew  canker-worm — 

Who  now  as  Raupach  holds  so  high  his  nose."* 

"  Who  scrawls  tragedies  in  sickly,  drunken  headaches."  Far  worse 
does  it  fare  with  the  "  Baptized  Heine."  Yes,  yes,  reader,  you  are  not 
mistaken,  it  is  I  of  whom  he  speaks,  and  in  King  (Edipus  you  may 
read,  how  I  am  a  real  Jew ;  how  I,  after  writing  love-songs  for  a  few 
hours  sit  me  down  and  clip  ducats ;  how  I  on  the  Sabbath  higgle  and 
trade  with  some  long-bearded  Moses  and  sing  the  Talmud ;  how  I  on 
Easter  night  slay  a  Christian  youth,  and  out  of  malice  choose  some 
unfortunate  writer  for  the  purpose — no,  dear  reader,  I  will  not  tell  you 
lies,  such  admirably  painted  pictures  are  not  to  be  found  in  King 
(Edipus,  and  the  fact  that  they  are  not  there,  is  the  very  thing  which 
I  blame.  Count  Platen  has  sometimes  the  best  subjects  and  does 
not  know  how  to  treat  them.  If  he  had  only  been  gifted  with  a 
little  more  imagination,  he  would  have  shown  me  up  at  least  as  a 
secret  pawn-broker,  and  what  comic  scenes  he  might  then  have 
sketched !  It  really  vexes  me  when  I  see  how  the  poor  Count 
suffers  every  opportunity  to  be  witty  to  escape  him.  How  gloriously 
he  could  have  represented  Raupach  as  a  tragedy-Rothschild,  from 
whom  the  royal  theatres  get  their  loans !  By  slightly  modifying  the 
plot  of  the  fable,  he  might  have  made  far  better  use  of  (Edipus  him- 
self, the  hero  of  his  play.  Instead  of  the  latter  murdering  his  father 
Laius,  and  marrying  his  mother  Jocasta,  he  ought,  on  the  contrary, 
to  have  so  arranged  it,  that  (Edipus  should  murder  his  mother  and 
marry  his  father.  A  Platen  in  such  a  poem  must  have  succeeded 
wonderfully  in  the  dramatic  (pe)  drastic,  his  own  natural  feelings 
would  have  stood  him  in  stead  of  any  effort;  like  a  nightingale,  he 
need  only  have  sung  the  throbbings  of  his  own  breast,  and  he  would 
have  brought  out  a  piece  which,  if  the  dead  dear  gazelling  iFFLANDf 
still  lived,  would  beyond  question,  be  at  once  studied  in  Berlin,  and 
played  in  private  theatres.  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  perfect  than 

*  Das  Jiidchen  Raupel, 

Das  jetzt  als  Raupach  trägt  so  hoch  die  Nase, 
f  Der  gazelige  Iffland.   Gazelle  f selig  =  gaselig 


—    364  — 


the  actor  "Wurm  in  the  performance  of  such  an  CEdipus.  He  would 
surpass  himself.  Again,  I  do  not  find  it  politic  in  the  Count,  that 
he  assures  us  in  his  comedies  that  he  has  "  real  wit."  Or  is  he  work- 
ing to  bring  about  the  startling  and  unprecedented  effect  as  a  coup 
de  theatre,  of  making  the  public  continually  expect  wit,  which  after 
all  will  not  appear?  Or  does  he  wish  to  encourage  the  public  to 
look  for  the  real  secret  wit  in  the  play,  the  whole  affair  being  a 
game  at  blind-man's  buff,  in  which  the  Platenic  wit  is  so  shrewd  as 
not  to  suffer  itself  to  be  caught  ?  It  is  probably  for  this  reason  that 
the  public,  which  is  accustomed  to  laugh  at  comedies,  is  so  solemn 
and  sad  over  the  Platen  pieces,  in  vain  it  hunts  for  the  hidden  wit 
and  cannot  find  it,  in  vain  the  hidden  wit  squeaks  out  "  here  I  am," 
and  again  more  clearly  "here  I  am,  here  I  am  indeed  !"• — all  is  of  no 
avail,  the  public  is  dumb  and  makes  a  solemn  face.  But  I  who 
know  where  the  joke  really  lies,  have  laughed  from  my  heart  as  I 
detected  the  meaning  of  '"the  count-like  imperious  poet,  who  veils 
himself  in  an  aristocratic  nimbus,  who  boasts  that  every  breath 
which  passes  his  teeth  is  a  crushing  to  fragments,"  and  who  says  to 
all  the  German  poets : 

"  Yes,  like  to  Nero  I  would  ye  had  but  one  head, 
That  by  one  blow  of  wit  I  might  decapitate  it." 

The  verse  is  incorrect.  But  the  hidden  joke  consists  in  this;  that 
the  Count  really  wishes  that  we  were  all  out  and  out  Neros,  and  he, 
on  the  contrary,  our  single  dear  friend,  Pythagoras. 

Perhaps  I  will,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Count,  yet  praise  many  a 
hidden  jest  of  his  up  into  notice,  but  since  he  in  his  "  King  CEdipus" 
has  touched  me  on  my  tenderest  point — for  what  can  be  dearer  to 
me  than  my  Christianity  ? — it  should  not  be  blamed  in  me  if  I,  yield- 
ing to  human  weakness  honor  the  CEdipus,  this  "  great  deed  in 
words,"  less  fervently  than  the  earlier  works  of  its  composer. 

Meanwhile,  true  merit  never  misses  its  reward,  and  the  author  of 
the  CEdipus  will  prove  to  be  no  exception  to  the  rule,  though  he  has 
here  a:s  everywhere  yielded  entirely  to  the  interest  of  his  noble  and 
spiritual  bum-bailiffs. *  Aye,  there  is  a  very  old  tradition  among 
the  races  of  the  East  and  of  the  West  that  every  good  or  bad  deed 
has  its  direct  consequences  for  the  doer.  And  the  day  will  come 
when  they  will  come — get  ready,  I  beg  you  reader,  for  a  flourish  of 
the  pathetic  and  the  terrible  combined — the  day  will  come  when 
they  will  rise  from  Tartarus — "  the  Eumenides,"  the  terrible  daugh- 

*  Hintersassen. 


—   365  — 


ters  of  Night.  By  the  Styx  ! — and  by  this  oath  the  gods  never 
swore  falsely — the  day  will  come  when  they  will  appear,  the  gloomy, 
primsevally  just  sisters,  and  they  will  appear  with  countenances 
serpent-locked  and  glowing  with  rage,  with  the  same  scourges  of 
snakes  with  which  they  once  scourged  Orestes,  the  unnatural  sinner 
who  murdered  his  mother,  the  Tyndaridean  Clyt^emnestra.  It  may 
be  that  even  now  the  Count  hears  the  serpent's  hiss — I  beg  you, 
reader,  just  at  this  instant  to  think  of  the  Wolf's  Eavine  and  the 
Samiel  music — perhaps  even  now  the  secret  shudder  of  the  sinner 
seizes  on  the  Count,  heaven  grows  dark,  night  birds  cry,  distant 
thunders  roll,  lightning  flashes,  there  is  a  smell  of  colophonium, — 
woe  !  woe  !  the  illustrious  ancestors  rise  from  their  graves,  they  cry 
three  and  four  times  "woe  !  woe  !"  over  their  wretched  descendant, 
they  conjure  him  to  don  their  breeches  of  iron  mail  to  protect  him- 
self from  the  terrible  lashes — for  the  Eumenides  intend  slashing  him 
with  them — the  serpents  of  the  scourge  will  ironically  solace  them- 
selves with  him,  and  like  the  lascivious  King  Rodrigo,  when  he  was 
shut  in  the  Tower  of  Serpents,  the  poor  Count  will  at  last  whimper 
and  wail 

"  Ah !  they're  biting,  ah  !  they're  biting 
That  with  which  I  chiefly  sinned!" 

Be  not  alarmed,  dear  reader — 'tis  all  a  joke !  These  terrible 
Eumenides  are  nothing  but  a  merry  comedy,  which  I,  after  a  fe^ 
lustrums,  intend  writing  under  this  title,  and  the  tragic  verses  which 
just  now  frightened  you  so  much,  are  to  be  found  in  the  j oiliest  book 
in  the  world,  in  Don  Quixotte  de  la  Mancha,  where  an  old  respecta- 
ble lady  in  waiting  recites  them  before  all  the  court.  I  see  that 
you're  smiling  again.  Let  us  take  leave  of  each  other  merry  and 
laughing !  If  this  last  chapter  Js  tiresome  it  is  owing  to  the 
subject ;  besides  it  was  written  rather  for  profit  than  for  pleasure, 
aud  if  I  have  succeeded  in  making  a  new  fool  fit  for  use  in  literature, 
the  Father-Land  owes  me  thanks.  I  have  made  a  field  capable  of 
cultivation  on  which  more  gifted  authors  will  sow  and  harvest.  The 
modest  consciousness  of  this  merit  is  my  best  reward.  To  such 
kings  as  are  desirous  of  presenting  me,  over  and  above  this,  with 
snuff  boxes  for  my  deserts,  I  would  remark  that  the  book  firm  of 
"Hoffmann  and  Campe"  in  Hamburgh,  are  authorized  to  receive 
any  thing  of  the  sort  on  my  account. 

Written  in  the  latter  part  of  the  autumn  of  1829. 

31* 

 .  


—   366  — 


3. 

THE  CITY  OF  LUCCA. 

"  The  City  of  Lucca,"  which  is  connected  with  "  The  Baths  of 
Lucca"  and  which  was  written  at  the  same  time,  is  not  given  here 
by  any  means  as  a  picture  by  itself,  but  as  the  conclusion  of  a  period 
of  life  corresponding  with  that  of  one  of  the  world's. 


CHAPTER  t 

Nature  around  us  acts  upon  Man — why  not  Man  upon  the  Nature 
which  encircles  him  ?  In  Italy  she  is  passionate  like  the  people  who 
live  there  ;  with  us  in  Germany  she  is  more  solemn,  reflective  and 
patient.  Was  there  once  a  time  when  Nature  had  like  Man  a 
deeper  life  ?  The  force  of  soul  in  Orpheus,  says  the  legend,  could 
move  trees  and  rocks  by  his  inspired  rhymes.  Could  the  like  be 
done  now  ?  Man  and  nature  have  become  phlegmatic,  and  stare 
gaping  at  each  other.  A  royal  Prussian  poet  will  never,  with 
the  chords  of  his  harp,  set  the  Tempelower  Hill  or  the  Berlin 
lindens  to  dancing. 

Nature  has  also  her  history,  and  it  is  an  altogether  different 
Natural  History  from  that  which  is  taught  in  schools.  Let  one 
of  those  grey  old  lizards  which1  have  dwelt  for  centuries  in  the 
rocky  crevices  of  the  Appenines  be  appointed  as  an  altogether 
extraordinary  Professor*  at  one  of  our  Universities,  and  we  should 
learn  from  him  some  very  extraordinary  things.  But  the  pride  of 
certain  gentlemen  of  the  legal  faculty  would  rebel  against  such  an 
appointment.  One  of  them  already  cherishes  a  secret  jealousy  of 
the  poor  puppy  Fido  Savant,  fearing  lest  he  may  displace  him  in 
erudite  fetching  and  carrying. 

*  An  "  extraordinary  Professor"  at  a  German  University  is  not,  as  mi^ht  be  supposed, 
from  the  name,  one  preeminent  in  dignity  or  distinguished  by  very  remarkable  qualifi- 
cations. He  is  on  the  contrary  a  sort  of  brevetted  Professor,  awaiting  his  promotion  to  » 
regular  appointment  in  ordinary.— [Note  by  Translator.'] 


—   367  — 

The  lizards,  with  their  cunning  little  tails  and  bright  crafty  eyes, 
have  told  me  wonderful  things  as  I  clambered  along  among  the  cliffs 
of  the  Appenines.  Truly  there  are  things  between  heaven  and  earth 
which  not  only  our  philosophers  but  even  our  commonest  blockheads 
have  not  comprehended. 

The  lizards  have  told  me  that  there  is  a  legend  among  the  stones 
that  God  will  yet  become  a  stone  to  redeem  them  from  their  torpid 
motionless  condition.  One  old  lizard  was  however  of  the  opinion 
that  this  stone-incarnation  will  not  take  place  until  God  shall  have 
changed  himself  into  every  variety  of  animal  and  plant  and  have 
redeemed  them. 

But  few  stones  have  feeling  and  they  only  breathe  in  the  moon- 
light. But  these  few  which  realize  their  condition  are  fearfully 
miserable.  The  trees  are  better  off — they  can  weep.  But  animals 
are  the  most  favored,  for  they  can  speak,  each  after  its  manner,  and 
Man  the  best  of  all.  At  some  future  time,  after  all  the  world  has 
been  redeemed,  then  all  created  things  will  speak  as  in  those  prim- 
eval times  of  which  poets  sing. 

The  lizards  are  an  ironic  race,  and  love  to  quiz  other  animals. 
But  they  were  so  meek  and  submissive  to  me,  and  sighed  with  such 
honorable  earnestness  as  they  told  me  stories  of  Atlantis,  which 
I  some  day  will  write  out  for  the  pleasure  and  profit  of  the  world. 
It  went  so  to  my  very  soul  among  those  little  creatures  who  guard 
the  secret  annals  of  Nature.  Are  they  perhaps  enchanted  families 
of  priests,  like  those  of  ancient  Egypt,  who,  prying  into  the  secrets 
of  Nature  dwelt  amid  labrynthine  rocky  grottoes  ?  And  we  see 
on  their  little  heads,  bodies  and  tails,  just  such  wondrous  charac- 
ters and  signs,  as  in  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphic  caps  and  garments 
of  the  hierophants. 

My  little  friends  also  taught  me  a  language  of  signs,  by  means  of 
which  I  could  converse  with  silent  Nature.  This  often  cheered  my 
soul,  especially  towards  evening,  when  the  mountains  were  veiled  in 
fearful  pleasant  shadows,  and  the  water-falls  roared,  and  every  plant 
sent  forth  its  perfume,  and  hurried  lightnings  twitched  hither  and 
thither, — 

s  0  Nature  !  thou  dumb  maiden  ! — well  do  I  understand  thy  sum- 
mer lightning,  that  vain  effort  at  speech  which  convulses  thy  lovely 
countenance,  and  thou  movest  me  so  deeply  that  I  weep.  But  then 
thou  understandest  me  also,  and  thou  art  glad  and  smilest  on  me 
with  thy  golden  eyes.  Beautiful  one,  I  understand  thy  stars  and 
thou  understandest  my  tears ! 


—   368  — 


CHAPTER  IL 

"  Nothing  in  the  world  will  go  backwards,"  said  an  old  lizard  to 
me.  "  Every  thing  pushes  onwards  and  finally  there  will  be  a  grand 
advance  in  all  Nature.  The  stones  will  become  plants,  the  plants 
animals,  the  animals  human  beings,  and  human  beings  Gods." 

"  But,"  I  cried,  "  what  will  become  of  those  good  folks,  the  poor 
old  Gods  r 

"  That  will  all  arrange  itself,  good  friend,"  replied  he.  "Probably 
they  will  abdicate,  or  be  placed  in  some  honorable  way  or  other  on 
the  retired  list." 

I  learned  many  another  secret  from  my  hieroglyph-skinned  natural 
philosopher ;  but  I  gave  him  my  word  of  honor  to  reveal  nothing. 
I  know  no  more  than  Schelling  and  Hegel. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  these  two  ?"  once  inquired  of  me  the  old 
lizard  with  a  scornful  smile,  as  I  chanced  to  mention  their  names. 

"  When  we  reflect,"  I  replied,  "  that  they  are  merely  men  and  not 
lizards,  we  should  be  amazed  at  their  knowledge.  At  bottom  they 
teach  one  and  the  same  doctrine,  the  Philosophy  of  Identity  which 
you  so  well  know ;  but  differ  in  their  manner  of  setting  it  forth. 
When  Hegel  sets  forth  the  principles  of  his  philosophy,  one  imag- 
ines that  he  sees  those  neat  figures  which  an  expert  schoolmaster 
knows  how  to  form  by  an  artistic  combination  of  all  manner  of  num- 
bers, so  that  a  common  observer  only  sees  in  them  the  superficial — 
the  house  or  boat  or  absolute  soldier  formed  from  the  figures,  while 
a  reflecting  school -boy  rather  sees  in  the  picture  the  solution  of  a 
deep  problem  in  arithmetic.  But  what  Schelling  sets  forth 
reminds  us  of  those  Indian  images  of  beasts  which  are  formed  them- 
selves by  bold  combinations  from  other  beasts,  serpents,  birds,  ele- 
phants and  similar  material.  This  sort  of  representation  is  far 
more  agreeable,  cheerful,  and  causes  warmer  throbbings  of  the  heart. 
All  lives  in  it,  while  the  abstract  Hegelian  ciphers  stare  at  us,  on 
the  contrary,  so  gray,  so  cold  and  dead." 

"  Good,  good  !"  replied  the  old  lizard.  "  I  see  what  you  mean; 
but  tell  me,  have  these  philosophers  many  auditors  ?" 

I  explained  to  him  how  in  the  learned  caravanserai  at  Berlin  the 
"  camels"  assemble  around  the  fountain  of  Hegelian  wisdom,  kneel 
down  to  be  loaded  with  precious  skins,  and  then  wend  their  way  on 
through  the  sandy  deserts  of  the  Mark.    I  further  described  to  him 


—   369  — 

how  the  modern  Athenians  crowded  to  the  well  of  the  spiritual 
wisdom  of  Schelling  as  though  it  were  the  best  of  beer,  the  lush  of 
life,  the  swizzle  of  immortality. — 

The  little  natural  philosopher  paled  with  all  the  yellowness  of 
envy  as  he  heard  that  his  colleagues  had  such  a  run  of  customers, 
and  he  vexedly  asked,  "  Which  of  the  two  do  you  regard  as  the 
greater  ?"  "  That,"  I  replied,  "  is  as  difficult  to  answer  as  though 
you  had  inquired  of  me  if  the  Schechner  were  greater  than  the 
Sonntag  and  I  think — " 

"  Think!"  cried  the  lizard,  in  a  sharp  aristocratic  tone  indicating 
the  very  intensity  of  slight — "  think  !  who  among  you  thinks  ?  My 
wise  gentleman,  for  some  three  thousand  years  I  have  devoted  myself 
to  investigating  the  spiritual  functions  of  animals,  with  especial 
regard  to  men,  monkeys  and  snakes  as  objects  of  study.  I  have 
expended  as  much  untiring  industry  on  these  curious  beings  as 
Lyonnet  on  caterpillars,  and  as  a  result  of  all  my  observations, 
experiments  and  anatomical  comparisons,  I  can  plainly  assure  you 
that  no  human  being  thinks,  only  once  in  a  while  something  occurs 
to  a  man,  or  comes  into  his  head,  and  these  altogether  unintentional 
accidents  they  call  thoughts,  while  the  stringing  them  together  they 
call  thinking.  But  in  my  name  you  may  deny  it ;  no  man  thinks,  no 
philosopher  thinks,  neither  Schelling  nor  Hegel  thinks,  and  as  for 
all  their  philosophy  it  is  empty  air  and  water  like  the  clouds  of 
Heaven.  I  have  seen  myriads  of  such  clouds,  proud  and  confident, 
sweeping  their  course  above  me,  and  the  next  morning's  sun 
dissolved  them  again  into  their  primaeval  nothingness  ; — there  is 
but  one  true  philosophy,  and  that  is  written  in  eternal  hieroglyphs 
on  my  own  tail." 

With  these  words,  which  were  spoken  with  disdainful  pathos,  the 
old  lizard  turned  his  back  on  me,  and  as  he  slowly  wiggled  away,  I 
saw  on  him  the  most  singular  characters,  which  in  variegated  signi- 
ficance spread  at  length  over  his  entire  tail. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  dialogue  detailed  in  the  previous  chapter  took  place  between 
the  Baths  of  Lucca  and  the  city  of  that  name,  not  far  from  the  great 
chestnut  tree,  whose  wild  green  twigs  overshadow  the  brook,  and 
in  the  vicinity  of  an  old  white  bearded  goat  who  dwelt  there  as  a 


—   370  — 

hermit.  I  was  on  the  way  to  Lucca,  to  visit  Francesca  and  Matilda, 
whom  I  was  to  meet  there  as  agreed  on  eight  days  before.  But  I 
had  went  thither  in  vain  the  first  time,  and  now  I  was  once  more  on 
the  road.  I  went  on  foot  through  beautiful  mountain  tracts  and 
groves,  where  the  gold  oranges,  like  day  stars  shone  out  from  the 
dark  green,  and  where  garlands  of  grape-vines  in  festal  drapery 
spread  along  for  leagues.  The  whole  country  is  there  as  garden-like 
and  adorned  as  the  rural  scenes  depicted  in  our  theatres,  even  the 
peasants  resembling  those  gay  figures  which  delight  us  as  a  sort  of 
singing,  smiling  and  danciug  stage  ornament.  No  Philistine  faces, 
anywhere.  And  if  there  are  Philistines  here,  they  are  at  least  Italiau 
orange-Philistines  and  not  the  plump,  heavy  German  potato-Philis- 
tines. The  people  are  picturesque  and  ideal  as  their  country,  and 
every  man  among  them  has  such  an  individual  expression  of  counte- 
nance, and  knows  how  to  set  forth  his  personality  in  gestures,  fold 
of  the  cloak,  and,  if  needful  in  ready  handling  of  his  knife.  With  us 
on  the  contrary,  one  sees  nothing  but  mere  men  with  universally 
similar  countenances;  when  twelve  of  them  are  together  they  make 
a  round  dozen,  and  if  any  one  attacks  them  they  call  for  the  police. 

I  was  struck  in  the  Luccan  district,  as  in  other  parts  of  Tuscany, 
with  the  great  felt  hats  with  long  waving  ostrich  plumes  worn  by 
the  women ;  and  even  the  girls  who  plaited  straw  had  these  heavy 
coverings  for  the  head.  The  men  on  the  contrary  generally  wear  a 
light  straw  hat,  and  young  fellows  receive  them  as  presents  from 
girls  who  have  braided  with  them  their  love  thoughts,  and  it  may  be 
many  a  sigh  besides.  So  sat  Francesca  once  among  the  girls  and 
flowers  of  the  Yal  d'Arno,  weaving  a  hat  for  her  Caro  Cecco,  and 
kissing  every  straw  as  she  took  it,  trilling  at  times  her  "  Occhie, 
Stelle  mortale ;" — the  curly-locked  head  which  afterwards  wore  it  so 
prettily  is  now  tonsured,  and  the  hat  itself  hangs,  old  and  worn-out, 
in  the  corner  of  a  gloomy  abbe's-cell  in  Bologna. 

I  am  one  of  that  class  who  are  always  taking  shorter  cuts  than 
those  given  by  the  regular  highway,  and  who  in  consequence  are 
often  bewildered  in  narrow,  woody  and  rocky  paths.  That  happened 
to  me  during  my  walk  to  Lucca,  and  I  was  beyond  question  twice 
as  long  on  the  journey  as  any  ordinary  high-road  traveller  would 
have  been.  A  sparrow,  of  whom  I  inquired  the  way,  chirped  and 
chirped  and  could  give  me  no  correct  information.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  know  himself.  The  butterflies  and  dragon-flies  who  sat  on  great 
flower-bells,  would  not  throw  me  a  word,  fluttering  away,  even  before 
my  question  was  asked,  and  the  flowers  shook  their  soundless  bell- 


—    '671  — 

heads.  Often  the  wild  myrtles  awakened  me,  tittering  with  delicate 
voices  from  afar.  Then  I  hurriedly  climbed  the  highest  crags,  and 
cried,  "  Ye  clouds  of  heaven  !  sailors  of  the  air  !  which  is  the  way  to 
Francesca  ?  Is  she  in  Lucca  ?  Tell  me  what  she  does  ?  What  is 
she  dancing  ?  Tell  me  all,  and  when  ye  have  told  me,  tell  me  it 
once  again  !" 

In  such  excesses  of  folly  it  was  natural  enough  that  a  solemn 
eagle,  wakened  by  my  cry  from  his  solitary  dreams,  should  have 
gazed  on  me  with  contemptuous  displeasure.  But  I  willingly  for- 
give him  ;  for  he  had  never  seen  Francesca,  and  could  in  conse- 
quence sit  so  sublimely  on  his  firm  rock,  and  gaze  so  free  of  soul 
at  heaven,  or  stare  with  such  impertinent  calmness  down  on  me. 
Such  an  eagle  has  such  an  insupportably  proud  glance,  and  looks 
at  one  as  though  he  would  say,  "  What  sort  of  a  bird  art  thou  V* 
Knowest  thou  not  that  I  am  as  much  of  a  king  as  I  was  in  those 
heroic  days  when  I  bore  Jupiter's  thunders  and  adorned  Napo- 
leon's banners  ?  Art  thou  a  learned  parrot  who  hast  learned 
the  old  songs  all  by  heart  and  pedantically  repeats  them  ?  Or  a 
sulky  turtle-dove  who  feels  beautifully  and  cooes  miserably  ?  Or  an 
almanac  nightingale  ?*  Or  a  gander  who  has  seen  better  days  and 
whose  ancestors  saved  the  capitol  ?  Or  an  altogether  servile  farm- 
yard cock,  around  whose  neck,  out  of  irony,  men  hang  my  image  in 
miniature,  the  emblem  of  bold  flight,  and  who  for  that  reason  spreads 
himself  and  struts  as  though  he  himself  were  a  veritable  eagle  ?  But 
you  know,  reader,  how  little  cause  I  have  to  feel  injured  when  an 
eagle  thinks  so  of  me.  I  believe  that  the  glance  which  I  cast  at 
him  was  even  prouder  than  his  own,  and  if  he  took  the  trouble  to 
inquire  of  the  first  laurel  in  his  way  he  now  knows  who  I  am. 

I  had  really  lost  my  way  in  the  mountains  as  the  twilight  shadows 
began  to  fall,  as  the  forest  songs  grew  silent  and  as  the  trees  rustled 
more  solemnly.  A  sublime  tranquillity  and  an  inexpressible  joy 
swept  like  the  breath  of  God  through  the  changed  silence.  Here 
and  there  beautiful  dark  eyes  gleamed  up  at  me  from  the  ground, 
disappearing  in  the  same  instant.  Delicate  whispers  played  with  my 
heart,  and  invisible  kisses  merrily  swept  my  cheek.  The  evening 
crimson  hung  over  the  hills  like  a  royal  mantle,  and  the  last  sun  rays 
lit  up  their  summits  till  they  seemed  like  kings  with  gold  crowns  on 
their  heads.  And  I  stood  like  an  Emperor  of  the  World,  among 
these  crowned  vassals  who  in  silence  did  me  homage. 


*  Almanachsnachtigall. 


—    372  — 


CHAPTEB  IV. 

1  po  not  know  if  the  monk  who  met  me  not  far  from  Lucca  is  a 
pious  man.  But  I  know  that  his  aged  body  hides,  poor  and  bare,  in 
a  coarse  gown  year  out  and  year  in  ;  his  torn  sandals  do  not  suffici- 
ently protect  his  feet  when  he  climbs  the  rocks  through  bush  and 
thorn,  that  he  may.  when  far  up  there,  console  the  sick  or  teach 
children  to  pray  ; — and  he  is  content,  if  any  one,  for  his  pains,  puts  a 
piece  of  bread  in  his  bag  and  lets  him  have  a  little  straw  to  sleep 
on. 

"Against  that  man  I  will  write  nothing,"  said  I  to  myself:  "When 
I  am  again  at  home  in  Germany,  sitting  at  ease  in  my  great  arm- 
chair by  a  crackling  stove,  well  fed  and  warm,  and  writing  against 
Catholic  priests — I  will  write  nothing  against  that  man — " 

To  write  against  Catholic  priests  one  must  know  their  faces.  But 
the  original  faces  are  only  to  be  found  in  Italy.  The  German  Catho- 
lic priests  and  monks  are  only  bad  imitations,  often  mere  parodies  of 
the  Italian,  and  a  comparison  of  the  two  would  be  like  comparing 
Roman  or  Florentine  pictures  of  the  saints  with  the  scare-crow, 
pious  caricatures  which  cume  from  the  blockhead  bourgeois  pencil 
of  some  Nuremberg  town-painter,  or  were  born. of  the  blessed  sim- 
plicity of  some  soul-borer  who  owes  his  dreary  existence  to  the  long- 
haired Christian  new  Germau  school. 

The  priests  in  Italy  have  long  settled  down  into  harmony  with 
public  opiniou  :  the  people  there  are  so  accustomed  to  distinguish 
between  clerical  dignity  and  priests  without  dignity,  that  they  can 
honor  the  one  even  when  they  despise  the  other.  Even  the  contrast 
which  the  ideal  duties  and  requirements  of  the  spiritual  condition 
form  with  the  unconquerable  demands  of  sensuous  nature, — that 
infinitely  old.  eternal  conflict  between  the  spirit  and  matter — makes 
of  the  Italian  priest  a  standing  character  of  popular  humor  in  satires, 
songs  and  novels.  Similar  phenomena  are  to  be  found  all  the  world 
over  where  there  is  a  like  priestly  rank,  as  for  instance  in  Hindostan. 
In  the  comedies  of  this  prinuvvally  pious  land,  as  we  have  remarked 
in  the  Sacontala,  and  find  confirmed  in  the  more  recently  translated 
\rasantasena.  a  Brarain  always  plays  the  comic  part,  or  as  we  might 
say.  the  priest-harlequin,  without  the  least  disturbance  of  the  rever- 
ence due  to  his  sacrificial  functions  and  his  privileged  holiness — as 
little  in  fact  as  an  Italian  would  experience  in  hearing  of  mass  or 


—    373  — 


confessing  to  a  priest  whom  he  had  found  the  day  before  tipsy  in  tb<* 
mud  of  the  street.  In  Germany  it  is  different ;  there,  the  Catholic 
priest  will  not  only  set  forth  his  dignit)  by  his  office,  but  also  his 
office  by  his  person  ;  and  because  he  perhaps  in  the  beginning  was 
in  earnest  with  his  calling,  and  subsequently  found  that  his  vows  of 
chastity  and  of  poverty  conflicted  somewhat  with  the  old  Adam,  he 
will  not  publicly  violate  them,  (particularly  lest  by  so  doing  he  might 
lay  himself  open  to  our  friend  Krug  of  Leipsig,)  and  so  endeavors  to 
assume  at  least  the  appearance  of  a  holy  life.  Hence,  sham-holiness, 
hypocrisy  and  the  gloss  of  outside  piety  among  German  priests, 
while  with  the  Italians  the  mask  is  more  transparent,  manifesting 
also  a  certain  plump  fat  irony  and  a  digestion  of  the  world  passing 
right  comfortably. 

But  what  avail  such  general  reflections  !  They  would  be  of  but 
little  use  to  you,  dear  reader,  if  you  had  a  desire  to  write  against 
the  Catholic  priesthood.  To  do  this  one  should  see  with  his  own 
eyes  the  faces  thereunto  pertaining.  Of  a  truth  it  is  not  enough  to 
h*ve  seen  them  in  the  royal  opera-house  in  Berlin.  The  last  head- 
aianager  did  his  best  to  make  the  coronation-array  in  the  Maid  of 
Orleans  true  to  life,  to  give  his  fellow-countrymen  an  accurate  idea 
of  a  procession,  and  to  show  them  priests  of  every  color.  But  the 
most  accurate  costumes  cannot  supply  the  original  countenances, 
and  though  an  extra  hundred  thousand  dollars  should  be  fooled 
away  for  gold  mitres,  festooned  surplices,  embroidered  chasubles, 
and  similar  stuff — still  the  cold  reasoning  Protestant  noses  which 
come  protesting  out  from  beneath  the  mitres  aforesaid,  the  lean 
meditative  legs  which  peep  from  under  the  white  lace  of  the  sur- 
plices, and  the  enlightened  bellies,  a  world  too  wide  for  the  chasu- 
bles— would  all  remind  one  of  us  that  it  was  not  Catholic  clergymen 
but  Berlin  worldings  which  wander  over  the  stage. 

I  have  often  reflected  whether  the  chief  stage-manager  would  not 
have  succeeded  better  and  have  brought  more  accurately  before  our 
eyes  the  idea  of  a  procession  if  he  had  had  the  priestly  parts  played, 
not  by  the  ordinary  supernumeraries  but  by  those  Protestant  clergy- 
men of  the  theological  faculty  who  know  how  to  preach  so  ortho- 
dcxically  in  the  Church  Journal,  and  from  the  pulpit,  against 
"  Reason,"  "  worldly  lusts,"  "  Gesenius,"  and  "  Devil-dom."  We 
should  then  have  seen  faces  whose  priestly  stamp  would  have  cor- 
responded far  more  illusively  with  the  part.  It  is  a  well  known 
observation  that  priests,  all  the  world  over,  whether  Rabbis,  Muftis, 
Dominicans,  Councillors  of  the  Consistory,  Popes,  Bonzes,  in  short, 

32 


—    374  — 

'he  whole  diplomatic  corps  of  the  Lord,  have  a  certain  family  like 
uess  in  their  faces,  such  as  we  are  accustomed  to  find  in  those  who 
follow  the  same  trade.  Tailors  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe  have 
weak  legs,  butchers  and  soldiers  all  have  a  fierce  color  and  style  and 
the  Jews  have  their  own  peculiar  honorable  expression,  not  because 
they  spring  from  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob,  but  because  they  are 
business  men,  and  the  Frankfort  Christian  shopman  looks  as  much 
ike  a  Frankfort  Jewish  shopman  as  one  rotten  egg  looks  like  another. 
And  the  spiritual  shop-people,  such  as  get  their  living  by  the  reli- 
gion-business, also  acquire  by  it  a  resemblance  in  countenance.  The 
Catholic  priest  does  business  like  a  clerk  who  has  a  place  in  an  ex- 
tensive establishment.  The  firm  of  the  Church,  at  whose  head  is 
the  Pope,  gives  him  a  regular  occupation  and  a  regular  salary ;  he 
works  leisurely  or  lazily  like  every  man  who  is  not  in  business  on 
his  own  account,  and  has  many  fellow-laborers,  and  who  escapes 
observation  among  the  multitude — only  he  has  the  credit  of  the 
house  at  heart,  and  still  more  its  permauence,  since  by  a  bankruptcy 
he  would  lose  his  means  of  support.  The  Protestant  clergyman  is, 
on  the  contrary,  everywhere  himself  principal,  and  he  carries  on  the 
religion-business  on  his  own  account.  He  does  not  drive  a  whole- 
sale business  like  his  Catholic  colleague,  but  only  a  small  retail 
trade,  and  as  he  represents  his  own  interests,  it  would  never  do  for 
him  to  be  negligent.  He  must  cry  up  his  articles  of  faith  to  the 
people,  depreciate  those  of  his  rivals,  and  like  a  real  retailer,  he 
stands  in  his  small  shop,  full  of  professional  envy  of  all  the  large 
houses,  particularly  of  the  great  firm  in  Rome,  which  salaries  so 
many  thousaud  book-keepers  and  salesmen,  and  has  its  factories  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe. 

Each  has  of  course  its  physiognomic  separate  effect,  but  these  are 
not  perceptible  from  the  parquette.  In  their  main  features,  the 
family  likeness  between  Catholic  and  Protestant  remains  unchanged, 
and  if  the  head-manager  would  pay  down  liberally  to  the  gentlemen 
aforesaid,  he  could  induce  them  to  act  their  parts  admirably — as  they 
are  in  the  habit  of  doing.  Even  their  walk  and  gait  would  conduce 
to  the  illusion,  though  a  sharp  practised  eye  would  readily  detect 
certain  shades  of  difference  between  it  and  that  of  Catholic  priests 
and  monks. 

A  Catholic  priest  walks  as  if  heaven  belonged  to  him  ;  a  Protest 
ant  clergyman,  on  the  contrary,  goes  about  as  if  he  had  taken  a  lease 
of  it. 


—   375  — 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  not  till  night  that  I  reached  the  City  of  Lucca. 

How  differently  it  had  appeared  to  me  the  week  before  as  I  wan- 
dered by  day  through  the  echoing  deserted  streets,  and  imagined 
myself  transported  to  one  of  those  enchanted  cities  of  which  my 
nurse  had  so  often  told  me.  Then  the  whole  city  was  silent  as  the 
grave,  all  was  so  pale  and  death-like  ;  the  gleam  of  the  sun  played 
on  the  roofs  like  gold-leaf  on  the  head  of  a  corpse  ;  here  and  there 
from  the  windows  of  a  mouldering  house  hung  ivy  tendrils  like  dried 
green  tears,  everywhere  glimmering  dreary  and  dismally  petrifying 
death.  The  town  seemed  but  the  ghost  of  a  town,  a  spectre  of  stone 
in  broad  daylight.  I  sought  long  and  in  vain  for  some  trace  of  a 
living  being.  I  can  only  remember  that  before  an  old  Palazzo  lay 
a  beggar  sleeping  with  outstretched  open  hand.  I  also  remem- 
ber having  seen  above  at  the  window  of  a  blackened  mouldering 
little  house,  a  monk,  whose  red  neck  and  plump  shining  pate,  pro- 
truded right  far  from  his  brown  gown,  and  near  him  a  full-breasted 
stark-naked  girl  was  visible,  while  below  in  the  half-open  house-door 
I  saw  entering,  a  little  fellow  in  the  black  dress  of  an  abbe,  and  who 
carried  with  both  hands  a  mighty,  full-bellied  wine-flask.  At  the 
same  instant  there  rang  not  far  off  a  delicately  ironic  little  bell, 
while  in  my  memory  tittered  the  novels  of  Messer  Boccacio.  But 
these  chimes  could  not  entirely  drive  away  the  strange  shudder 
which  ran  through  my  soul.  It  held  me  the  more  ironly  bound  since 
the  sun  lit  up  so  warmly  and  brightly  the  uncanny  buildings ;  and  I 
marked  well  that  ghosts  are  far  more  terrible  when  they  cast  aside 
the  black  mantle  of  night  to  show  themselves  in  the  clear  light  of 
noon. 

But  what  was  my  astonishment  at  the  changed  aspect  of  the  city 
when  I,  eight  days  later,  revisited  Lucca.  "  What  is  that  ?"  I  cried, 
as  innumerable  lights  dazzled  my  eyes  and  a  stream  of  human  beings 
whirled  through  the  streets.  Has  an  entire  race  risen  spectre-like 
from  the  grave  to  mock  life  with  the  maddest  mummery  ?"  The 
lofty  melancholy  houses  were  bright  with  lamps,  variegated  carpets 
hung  from  every  window,  nearly  hiding  the  crumbling  grey  walls, 
and  above  them  peered  out  lovely  female  faces,  so  fresh,  so  blooming, 
that  I  well  marked  that  it  was  Life  herself  celebrating  her  bridal  feast 
flith  Death  and  who  had  invited  the  Beauty  of  Life  as  a  priest.  Yes, 


—  376 


it  was  such  a  living  death  feast,  though  I  do  know  exactly  how  it 
was  called  in  the  calendar.  At  any  rate  it  was  the  flaying  day  of 
some  blessed  martyr  or  other,  for  I  afterwards  saw  a  holy  skull  and 
several  extra  hones  adorned  with  flowers  and  gems,  carried  around 
with  bridal  music.    It  was  a  fine  procession. 

First  of  all  went  such  Capuchins  as  were  distinguished  from  the 
other  monks  by  wearing  long  beards,  and  who  formed  as  it  were  the 
sappers  of  this  religious  army.  Theu  followed  beardless  Capuchins, 
among  whom  were  many  noble  countenances,  and  even  many  a 
youthful  and  beautiful  face,  which  looked  well  with  the  broad  ton- 
sure, since  the  head  seemed  through  it  as  if  braided  around  with  a 
neat  garland  of  hair,  and  which  came  forth  with  the  bare  neck  in 
admirable  relief  from  the  brown  cowl.  These  were  followed  by 
cowls  of  other  colors,  black,  white,  yellow  and  gaily  striped  as  well 
as  down  drawn  triangular  hats,  iu  short,  all  those  cloister  costumes 
which  the  euterprize  of  our  theatrical  manager  has  made  so  familiar. 
After  the  monkish  orders  came  the  regular  priests,  with  white  shirts 
over  black  pantaloons,  and  wearing  colored  caps,  who  were  in  turn 
succeeded  by  still  more  aristocratic  clergymen,  wrapped  in  different 
colored  silken  garments  and  bearing  on  their  heads  a  sort  of  high 
caps,  which  iu  all  probability  originated  in  Egypt,  and  with  which 
we  are  familiar  from  the  works  of  Dexox,  from  the  "  Magic  Flute," 
and  from  Belzoxi.  These  latter  had  faces  which  bore  marks  of  long 
service,  and  appeared  to  form  a  sort  of  old  guard.  Last  of  all  came 
the  regular  staff  around  a  canopied  throne,  beneath  which  sat  an 
old  num  with  a  still  higher  head-dress  and  in  a  still  richer  mantle, 
whose  extremity  was  borne  after  the  manner  of  pages  by  two  other 
old  men  clad  iu  a  similar  manner. 

The  first  monks  went  with  folded  arms  in  solemn  silence,  but  those 
with  the  high  caps  sang  a  most  miserable  and  unhappy  psalm,  so 
nasally,  so  shuffliugly.  and  so  gruntiugly,  that  I  am  perfectly  con- 
vinced that  if  the  Jews  had  formed  the  great  mass  of  the  people, 
and  if  their  religion  had  been  the  established  religion,  the  aforesaid 
psalmcdising  would  have  been  characterized  with  the  name  of 
'•mauscheln."*     Fortunately  one  could  only  half  hear  it,  since 

*  }fausc'idn — a  slang  term  signifying  bo  speak  like  a  Jew.  It  is  iWired  from  Manse 
or  iftimrfrri  «n  equally  vulgar  name  for  a  Jew,  corresponding  to  the  old-fash  ion  «.  d 
Fjiglish  word  "  smouch."'  If.  as  is  said.  Mauschel  is  derived  from  Mooes,  the  rerb  in 
question  should  strictly  he  rendered  "  t"»  mosey."'  Unf ^rtunatelv  this  word  is  already 
pre-occupied  iu  En-Iish  with  an  entirely  different  meaning  To  mosey,  aa  the  re  tu  la* 
d  uibtless  knows,  signifies  to  beat  h  rapid  retreat,  or.  musically  speaking,  to  perform  ■ 
l'.xod2S  in  the  time  o:  Mouc  i»  EgiUo. 


—   377  — 


there  marched  behind  the  procession  with  a  full  accompaniment  of 
drums  and  fifes,  several  companies  of  troops,  besides  which  there 
was  on  each  side  near  the  priests  in  their  flowing  robes,  grenadiers 
going  by  two  and  two.  There  were  almost  as  many  soldiers  as 
clergy,  but  it  requires  many  bayonets  now-a-days  to  keep  up  religion 
and  even  when  the  blessing  is  given  cannon  must  roar  significantly 
in  the  distance. 

When  I  see  such  a  procession,  in  which  clergymen  amid  military 
escort  walk  along  so  miserably  and  sorrowfully,  it  strikes  painfully 
to  my  soul,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  saw  our  Saviour  him- 
self surrounded  by  lance-bearers  and  led  to  judgment.  The  stars  at 
Lucca  felt  beyond  question  as  I  did,  and  as  I  sighing,  glanced  up  at 
them,  they  looked  down  on  me,  one  with  my  soul,  with  their  pious 
eyes,  so  clear  and  bright.  But  we  needed  not  their  light.  Thous- 
ands and  fresh  thousands  of  lamps  and  candles  and  girls'  faces 
gleamed  from  all  the  windows  ;  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  flaring 
pitch-hoops  were  placed,  and  then  every  priest  had  his  own  private 
torch-bearer  to  keep  him  company.  The  Capuchins  had  generally 
little  boys,  who  carried  their  lights  for  them,  and  the  youthful  fresh 
little  faces  looked  up  from  time  to  time  right  curiously  and  pleased 
at  the  old  solemn  beards.  A  poor  Capuchin  like  these  cannot 
afford  a  greater  torch-bearer  and  the  boy  to  whom  he  teaches  the 
Ave  Maria,  or  whose  old  aunt  confesses  to  him,  must,  at  the  pro- 
cession, perform  this  service  gratis,  and  beyond  question  it  is  not 
done  with  the  less  love  on  that  account.  The  monks  who  came 
after  did  not  have  much  larger  boys  ;  a  few  more  respectable  orders 
had  grown  up  youths,  and  the  high-minded  and  mitred  priests  re- 
joiced in  having  each  a  real  citizen  to  hold  a  candle.  But  the  one 
last  of  all,  the  Lord  Archbishop — for  such  was  the  man  who  in 
aristocratic  humility  went  along  beneath  the  canopy,  and  whose 
train  was  borne  by  grey  pages — had  on  either  side  a  lackey,  each  bril- 
liant in  blue  livery  with  yellow  laces,  and  who  bore  a  white  wax 
taper  as  ceremoniously  as  though  he  officiated  at  court. 

At  all  events  this  candle-bearing  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  good 
arrangement,  since  it  enabled  me  to  see  so  plainly  the  faces  per- 
taining to  Catholicism,  and  now  I  have  seen  them,  and  in  the  best 
of  lights  at  that.  And  what  did  I  see?  Well!  the  clerical  stamp 
was  nowhere  wanting.  But  if  this  was  not  thought  of,  there  was  as 
great  a  variety  in  the  faces  as  in  those  of  other  men.  One  was  pale, 
another  red,  this  man  held  his  nose  well  up,  that  one  was  dejected, 
here  there  was  a  flashing  black,  there  a  flickering  grey  eye — but  in 

32* 


—    378  — 


every  face  there  was  a  trace  of  the  same  malady;  a  terrible  incur- 
able malady,  which  will  probably  be  the  reason  why  my  descendant, 
when  he  a  century  later  looks  at  the  procession  in  Lucca,  will  not 
find  a  single  one  of  all  those  faces.  I  fear  that  I  myself  am  infected 
with  that  illness,  and  that  one  result  of  it  is  that  languor  which  so 
strangely  steals  over  me  when  I  see  the  sickly  face  of  a  monk,  and 
read  in  it  such  sorrows  as  hide  under  a  coarse  cowl ;  aggravated  love, 
gout,  disappointed  ambition,  spine  complaint,  remorse,  hemorrhoids, 
and  the  heart-wounds  which  are  caused  by  the  ingratitude  of  friends, 
by  the  slander  of  enemies,  and  by  our  own  sins.  Yea,  all  of  these, 
and  far  many  more,  which  find  no  more  difficulty  in  settling  under  a 
coarse  cowl  than  beneath  a  fashionable  dress  coat.  0  !  it  is  no 
exaggeration  when  the  poet  cries  out  in  his  agony,  "  life  is  a  sickness, 
all  the  world  a  lazar-house  ?" 

"And  Death  is  our  physician!" — Ah,  I  will  say  nothing  evil  of 
him  and  disturb  none  in  their  confidence  in  him ;  for  as  he  is  the 
only  physician,  they  may  as  well  believe  that  he  is  the  best,  and  that 
the  only  remedy  which  he  employs,  his  eternal  earth-cure,  is  also  the 
best.  His  friends  can  say  at  least  this  much  in  his  favor,  that  he  is 
always  at  hand,  and  that  despite  his  immense  practice,  he  makes  no 
one  wait  who  earnestly  desires  to  see  him.  And  often  does  he 
follow  his  patient,  even  to  the  procession  and  bears  for  them  the 
torch.  Surely  it  was  Death  himself  whom  I  saw  walking  by  the 
side  of  a  pale,  sorrowful  priest ;  bearing  in  his  thin,  quivering,  bony 
hands,  a  flickering  torch,  who  nodded  pleasantly  and  consolingly  with 
his  anxious,  bald  pate,  and  who  weak  as  he  himself  was  on  the  legs,  still 
held  up,  from  time  to  time,  the  old  priest,  whose  steps  seemed  grow- 
ing weaker  and  readier  to  fall.  He  seemed  to  be  whispering  courage 
to  the  latter,  "  only  wait  a  few  short  hours,  then  we  will  be  home, 
and  I  will  lay  thee  in  bed,  and  thy  cold,  weary  limbs  may  rest  as 
long  as  they  will,  and  thou  shalt  sleep  so  soundly  that  thou  wilt  not 
hear  the  whimpering  of  the  little  St.  Michael's  bell." 

"And  against  that  man,  also,  I  will  write  nothing,"  thought  I,  as 
I  saw  the  poor  pale  priest,  whom  Death  himself  was  lighting  to  hia 
bed. 

Alas !  one  ought  really  to  write  against  no  one  in  this  wörld.  We 
are  all  of  us  sick  and  suffering  enough  in  this  great  Lazaretto,  and 
many  a  piece  of  polemical  reading  involuntarily  reminds  me  of  a 
revolting  quarrel  in  a  little  hospital  at  Cracow,  where  I  was  an 
accidental  spectator,  and  where  it  was  terrible  to  hear  the  sick 
mocking  and  reviling  each  other's  infirmities,  how  emaciated  con- 


—    3^  — 


sumptives  ridiculed  those  who  were  bloated  with  dropsy,  how  one 
laughed  at  the  cancer  in  the  nose  of  another,  and  he  again  jeered 
the  locked-jaw  and  distorted  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  until  finally  those 
who  were  mad  with  fever  sprang  naked  from  bed,  and  tore  the 
coverings  and  sheets  from  the  maimed  bodies  around,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  revolting  misery  and  mutilation. 


CHAPTEK  VI. 

He  then  also  poured  forth  to  the  other  immortals  assembled 
Sweetest  pleasantest  nectar,  the  goblet  quickly  exhausting 
And  still  an  infinite  laughter  rang  from  the  happy  immortals 
As  they  saw  how  Hephaestos  around  was.  so  cleverly  passing. 
Thus  through  the  live  long  day  until  the  sun  was  declining 
The  feast  went  on,  nor  was  wanting  through  all  the  genial  banquet 
Either  the  sound  of  the  strings  of  the  exquisite  lyre  of  Apollo 
Nor  the  soft  song  of  the  Muse  with  voices  sweetly  replying. 

Suddenly  there  came  gasping  towards  them  a  pale  Jew,  dripping 
with  blood,  a  crown  of  thorns  on  his  head  ;  bearing  a  great  cross  of 
wood  on  his  shoulder  ;  and  he  cast  the  cross  on  the  high  table  of  the 
gods,  so  that  the  golden  goblets  trembled  and  fell,  and  the  gods 
grew  dumb  and  pale,  and  ever  paler,  till  they  melted  in  utter  mist. 

Then  there  were  dreary  days,  and  the  world  became  grey  and 
gloomy.  There  were  no  more  happy  immortals,  and  Olympus  be- 
came a  hospital,  where  flayed,  roasted  and  spitted  gods  went 
wearily,  wandering  round,  binding  their  wounds  and  singing  sorrowful 
songs.  Religion  no  longer  offered  joy,  but  consolation ;  it  was  a 
woeful,  bleeding  religion  of  transgressors. 

Was  it,  perhaps,  necessary  for  miserable  and  oppressed  humanity  ? 
He  who  sees  his  God  suffer,  bears  more  easily  his  own  afflictions. 
The  merry  gods  of  old,  who  felt  no  pangs,  knew  not  of  course  the 
feelings  of  poor  tortured  Man,  who  in  turn  could  in  his  need  find  no 
heart  to  turn  to  them.  They  were  festival  gods,  around  whom  the 
world  danced  merrily,  and  who  could  only  be  praised  at  feasts. 
Therefore  they  were  never  loved  from  the  very  soul  and  with  all  the 
heart.  To  be  so  loved — one  must  be  a  sufferer.  Pity  is  the  last 
consecration  of  love,  it  may  be,  love  itself.  Of  all  the  gods  who 
loved  in  the  olden  time,  Christ  is  the  one  who  has  been  the  most 
loved.    Especially  by  the  women  

Avoiding  the  bustling  throng,  I  lost  myself  in  a  solitary  church, 


—    380  — 


and  what  you,  dear  reader,  have  just  read,  are  not  so  much  my  own 
thoughts,  as  certain  involuntary  words  which  came  to  life  in  me, 
while  I  reclining  on  one  of  the  old  benches  for  prayer,  let  the  tones 
of  the  organ  flow  freely  through  my  breast.  Thus  I  lie  in  soul  amid 
strange  phantasies,  the  wondrous  music  suggesting,  from  time  to 
time,  a  more  wondrous  text.  At  times  my  eyes  sweep  through  the 
dim  growing  archways,  seeking  the  dark  visible  echoes  of  forms 
belonging  to  those  organ  melodies.  Who  is  that  veiled  figure  kneel 
ing  yonder  before  an  image  of  the  Madonna  ?  The  swinging  lamp 
which  hangs  before  it,  lights  up  fearfully  yet  sweetly  the  beautiful 
Mother  of  Suffering  of  a  crucified  love,  the  Yenus  dolorosa;  but 
pandering  gleams,  full  of  mystery,  fall,  from  time  to  time,  as  if  by 
stealth,  on  the  beautiful  outlines  of  the  veiled  and  praying  lady. 
She  lay,  indeed,  motionless  on  the  stone  altar  steps,  but  in  the 
quivering  light  her  shadow  seemed  to  live  and  often  ran  up  to  me 
and  then  retreated  in  haste,  like  a  dumb  negro,  the  timid  love-mes- 
senger of  a  harem — and  I  understood  him.  He  announced  the  arrival 
of  his  lady,  the  Sultaness  of  my  heart. 

Minute  by  miuute  it  grew  darker  in  the  empty  house,  here  and 
there  an  undefined  form  glided  along  the  pillars,  now  and  then  a  soft 
murmur  was  heard  in  a  side-chapel,  and  the  organ  groaned  out  its 
long-drawn  tones,  like  the  heart  of  a  sighing  giant. 

It  seemed  as  though  those  organ  notes  would  never  cease,  as  though 
the  death-notes  of  that  living  death  would  endure  forever.  I  felt  an 
indescribable  depression  of  spirits,  and  such  a  nameless,  anxious 
terror,  as  though  I  had  been  buried  in  a  trance.  Yes,  as  though  I, 
one  of  the  long  dead,  had  risen  from  my  grave,  and  had  gone  with 
dark  mysterious  comrades  of  the  night  into  the  Church  of  Phantoms, 
to  hear  the  Prayer  of  the  Dead  and  confess  the  Sins  of  the  Corpse. 
I  often  felt  as  though  I  saw  seated  near  me,  in  the  spectral  twilight, 
the  long  departed  of  the  city,  in  obsolete  Old-Florentine  dresses, 
with  long  pale  faces,  with  gold  bound  books  of  devotion  in  their  thin 
hands,  secretly  whispering,  nodding  in  silent  melancholy-wise,  one  to 
the  other.  The  wailing  tone  of  a  far  away  Bell  of  the  Dead, 
reminded  me  again  of  the  sick  priest  whom  I  had  seen  in  the  pro- 
cession, and  I  said  to  myself :. he  too  is  now  with  the  departed,  but 
he  will  come  here  to  read  the  first  Night-Mass,  and  then  the  sad 
spectre  scene  will  begin  in  earnest.  But  suddenly  there  arose  from 
the  steps  of  the  altar,  the  lovely  form  of  the  veiled  and  praying 
lady — 

Yes,  it  was  she,  her  living  shade  had  already  driven  afar  the  white 


—   381  — 

phantoms,  1  now  saw  but  her  alone.  I  followed  her  quickly  from 
the  church,  and  as  she,  on  passing  the  door,  raised  her  veil,  I  saw  it 
was  Francesca's  face,  bedewed  with  tears.  It  was  like  a  white  rose 
flowered  to  fulness  by  love-longing,  pearled  by  the  dew  of  night  and 
gleaming  in  the  moon-rays.  "  Francesca,  dost  thou  love  me  ?"  I 
asked  much  and  she  answered  but  little.  I  accompanied  her  to 
the  Hotel  Croce  di  Malta,  where  she  and  Matilda  lodged.  The 
streets  were  empty,  the  houses  slept  with  their  window-eyes  closed, 
only  here  and  there,  through  their  wooden  lashes,  there  gleamed  a 
light.  High  in  heaven,  among  the  clouds,  there  was  a  clear  green 
space,  and  in  it  swam  the  half  moon,  like  a  gondola  in  an  emeraldine 
sea.  In  vain  I  begged  Francesca  to  look  up  for  once  at  our  dear 
old  trusty  friend — but  she  kept  her  head  dreamily  bent  downwards. 
Her  gait,  once  so  elate  and  spirited,  yet  gliding,  was  now  as  it  were 
in  ecclesiastical  measure,  her  steps  were  gloomy  and  Catholic,  she 
moved  as  if  to  the  music  of  an  organ  on  some  high  festival  day,  and 
as  her  limbs  had  in  other  nights  been  inspired  by  Sin,  so  they  now 
seemed  to  be  inspired  by  Religion.  On  the  way  she  crossed  her 
head  and  breast  before  every  saint's  image ;  and  in  vain  did  I  at- 
tempt to  aid  her  in  this.  But  when  we,  on  the  Market  Place,  passed 
the  Church  of  San  Michiele,  where  the  marble  Mother  of  Pain 
gleamed  forth  dimly  from  her  dark  niche,  with  a  gilded  sword  in  her 
heart  and  a  crown  of  lamps  on  her  head,  Francesca  suddenly  cast 
her  arms  around  my  neck,  kissed  me,  and  whispered  "  Cecco,  Cecco, 
caro  Cecco  !" 

I  calmly  took  charge  of  the  kiss,  though  I  well  knew  that  it 
was  really  intended  for  a  Bolognese  abbe,  a  servant  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church.  As  a  Protestant,  I  did  not  scruple  to  appropriate 
to  my  use  the  goods  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  I  consequently 
secularised  the  pious  kiss  of  Francesca  on  the  spot.  I  know  that 
when  the  priests  come  to  hear  of  this  they  will  rage,  they  will  scream 
out  church  robbery  at  me,  and  if  possible,  would  gladly  apply  to  me 
the  French  Law  of  Sacrilege.  To  my  sorrow^  I  must  confess  that 
the  aforesaid  kiss  was  the  only  one  which  I  got  hold  of,  that  night. 
Francesca  had  determined  to  devote  the  night,  kneeling  and  in 
prayer,  to  the  safety  of  her  soul.  In  vain  did  I  beg  leave  to  share 
her  pious  exercises ; — when  she  reached  her  room  she  shut  the  door 
in  my  face.  In  vain  did  I  stand  a  whole  hour  without,  begging  for 
entrance,  sighing  every  possible  sigh,  feigning  pious  tears  and 
swearing  the  most  sanctified  oaths — of  course  with  clerical  reserva- 
tion.— I  felt  that  I  was,  little  by  little,  becoming  a  Jesuit,  I  grew 


—    382  — 


altogether  depraved,  aud  finally  offered  for  one  night  to  become 
Catholic. 

"  Francesca  I"  I  cried,  "  Star  of  my  thoughts  !  Thought  of  my 
soul!  vita  della  mia  vita!  my  beautiful,  oft-kissed,  slender,  Catholic 
Francesca  !  for  this  one  night,  if  thou  wilt  grant  it  to  me,  I  will 
become  a  Catholic — but  only  for  this  night !  0  the  beautiful,  blessed. 
Catholic  night !  I  will  lie  in  thy  arms,  with  deepest  Catholicism,  I 
will  believe  in  the  Heaven  of  thy  love,  we  will  kiss  the  sweet  confes- 
sion from  our  lips,  the  Word  will  be  made  flesh,  Faith  will  become 
corporeal  in  body  and  in  form !  oh  what  religion !  Ye  priests  ring 
forth  meanwhile  in  j.oy  yoür  Kyrie  Eleison,  ring,  burn  incense,  sound 
the  bells !  let  the  organ  be  heard,  peal  out  the  mass  of  Palestrina 
— that  is  the  Body  ! — I  believe,  I  am  blest,  I  sleep — but  so  soon  as 
I  awake  on  the  next  morning,  I  will  rub  away  sleep  and  Catholicism 
from  my  eyes,  and  see  again  clearly  the  sunlight  and  the  Bible,  and 
be  as  before,  Protestant,  reasonable  and  sober. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

When  the  next  day  the  sun  smiled  gloriously  down  from  heaven, 
it  banished  all  the  sad  thoughts  and  sombre  feelings  which  the  pro- 
cession of  the  previous  night  had  awakened  in  me,  and  had  made  life 
appear  like  a  sickness  and  the  world  like  a  hospital. 

All  the  town  was  alive  with  a  cheerful  multitude — gaily  decked 
mortals — while  here  and  there  among  them  hastened  along  a  black 
little  priest.  All  was  noise  and  laughter  and  gossip ;  scarce  could 
we  hear  the  chiming  of  the  bells,  which  summoned  us  to  grand  mass 
in  the  Cathedral.  This  is  a  beautiful  simple  church,  whose  fa9ade  of 
variegated  marble,  is  ornamented  with  those  short  pillars,  rising  one 
above  the  other,  and  which  look  with  such  a  merry  melancholy  on 
us.  Within,  pillars  and  walls  were  clad  in  scarlet  drapery,  and  serene 
music  swelled  forth  over  the  wave-like  masses  of  human  beings. 
Francesca  leaned  upon  my  arm,  and  as  I,  on  entering,  gave  her 
holy  water,  and  as  our  souls  were  electrified  by  the  delicious  damp 
touch  of  each  other's  fingers,  I  received,  simultaneously,  such  an 
electric  shock  on  my  leg,  that  I  very  nearly  tumbled  for  terror  over 
the  kneeling  peasant  women  who,  clad  all  in  white  and  loaded  with 
long  ear-rings  and  necklaces  of  yellow  gold,  covered  in  masses  the 
floor.    As  I  looked  around,  I  saw  aaoiaor  Kneeling  female,  fanning 


herself,  and  behind  the  fan  I  spied  my  Lady's  merry  eyes.  I  bent 
towards  her,  and  she  breathed  at  the  same  time  languish i ugly  into 
my  ear,  "delightful!" 

"  For  God's  sake  !"  I  whispered  to  her,  "  be  serious  !  If  you  laugh, 
we  shall  certainly  be  turned  out  of  doors  !" 

But  prayer  and  entreaty  was  in  vain.  Fortunately  no  one  under 
otood  the  language  in  which  we  spoke.  For  wbea  my  Lady  arose 
and  accompanied  us  through  the  throng  to  the  high  altar,  she  gave 
herself  entirely  up  to  her  wild  caprices  without  the  slightest  caution, 
as  though  we  had  stood  alone  on  the  Appenines.  She  ridiculed 
everything,  even  the  poor  painted  pictures  on  the  wall  did  not  escape 
her  arrows. 

"  Look  there,"  she  cried,  "  at  Lady  Eve  nSe  Rib,  how  she  chats 
with  the  Serpent !  It  was  a  good  idea,  that,  of  the  painter  to  give 
the  snake  a  human  head  with  a  human  countenance  ;  but  it  would 
have  been  much  more  sensible  if  he  had  adorned  the  face  of  the 
seducer  with  a  military  moustache.  Look  there,  Doctor,  at  the 
angel  announcing  to  the  highly  blest  Virgin  her  blessed  1  situation,' 
and  who  laughs  at  tTie  same  time  so  ironically.  I  know  what  the 
rascal  is  thinking  of!  And  that  other  Maeia,  at  whose  feet  the 
holy  alliance  of  the  East  are  kneeling  with  their  offerings  of  gold 
and  incense — doesn't  she  look  like  Catalani  ?" 

Signora  Fraxcesca,  who,  on  account  of  her  ignorance  of  English, 
understood  nothing  of  all  this  chatter,  save  the  word  Catalani, 
quickly  remarked  that  the  lady  of  whom  our  friend  spoke  had  really 
lost  most  of  her  celebrity.  But  our  friend  did  not  suffer  herself  to 
be  in  the  least  put  out,  and  passed  her  comments  on  the  pictures  of 
the  Passion  to  that  of  the  Crucifixion,  an  exquisitely  beautiful  paint- 
ing, where,  among  others,  three  stupid  idle  faces  were  painted,  look- 
ing on  at  their  ease  at  the  divine  martyrdom,  and  which  My  Lady 
insisted,  represented  the  deputies  plenipotentiary  of  Austria,  Russia, 
and  France. 

Meanwhile  the  old  frescoes,  which  occasionally  appeared  between 
the  folds  of  scarlet  drapery,  had  with  their  wondrous  earnestness  of 
expression,  some  influence  in  subduing  the  British  love  of  mockery. 
There  were  among  them  faces  from  the  heroic  age  of  Lucca,  of  which  < 
so  much  is  said  in  Machiavelli,  that  romantic  Sallust,  whose  spirit 
sweeps  towards  us  with  such  fire  from  the  songs  of  Dante,  the 
Catholic  Homer.  In  those  faces  the  strong  feelings  and  barbaric 
thoughts  of  the  Middle  Age  are  well  expressed,  although  on  the 
mouth  of  many  a  silent  youth  there  quivers  a  smiling  confession  that 


—  884 


in  those  days  all  the  roses  were  not  of  stone  or  unblown,  and  although 
through  the  pious  down-drooping  eye-lashes  of  many  a  Madonna  of 
the  day  there  twinkles  a  roguish  leer  of  love,  as  though  she  were 
willing  to  present  us  with  another  infant  Jasu«.  At  all  events  it  is 
a  higher  spirit  which  speaks  to  us  from  those  old  Florentine  paint- 
ings :  it  is  the  truly  heroic,  which  we  recognize  in  the  marble  images 
of  the  Gods  of  Antiquity,  and  which  does  not  consist  as  our  aesthetic 
philosophers  suppose  in  eternal  calm  without  passion,  but  in  an 
eternal  passionate  emotion  without  unrest.  We  also  see  in  several 
oil  paintings  of  a  later  day  which  hang  in  the  Cathedral  of  Lucca, 
the  same  old  Florentine  spirit — perhaps  as  a  traditional  echo.  I 
was  particularly  pleased  with  a  '  Wedding  of  Cana,'  by  a  scholar  of 
Andrea  pel  Sarto,  and  which  was  somewhat  harshly  and  stiffly 
painted.  In  it  the  Saviour  sits  between  the  soft  fair  bride  and  a 
Pharisee  whose  stony  law-table  countenance  is  in  amazement  at  the 
genial  prophet  who  so  cheerfully  mingles  with  the  merry  guests,  and 
treats  them  to  miracles  far  surpassing  those  of  Moses  ;  for  the  latter, 
though  he  struck  with  all  his  force  on  the  rocks,  brought  forth 
nothing  but  water,  while  the  latter  needed  only  to  speak  a  single 
word  to  fill  all  the  jars  with  the  best  of  wine.  Far  softer,  almost 
Venetian  in  color,  is  the  portrait  of  an  unknown  person  hanging 
near  it  and  in  which  the  pleasant  blending  of  hues  is  strangely  quali- 
fied by  a  pain  which  thrills  the  soul.  It  represents  Mary  anointing 
the  feet  of  Jesus  and  drying  them  with  her  hair.  Christ  sits  there 
among  his  disciples,  a  beautiful,  intelligent  God,  who  with  human 
sorrow  feels  a  fearful  pious  commiseration  for  his  own  body,  which 
ere  long  must  suffer  so  much  ;  and  to  whom  the  flattering  unction  of 
honour  which  the  dead  receive  is  already  due  and  already  realized. 
He  smiles  calmly  on  the  kneeling  woman,  who  impelled  by  a  presen- 
timent of  loving  anguish  performs  her  pitying  task,  a  deed  which 
will  never  be  forgotten  so  long  as  suffering  humanity  shall  endure, 
and  which  will  breathe  forth  a  perfume  for  the  refreshing  of  those 
suffering  for  thousands  of  years.  With  the  exception  of  the  youth 
who  rested  on  the  bosom  of  Christ,  and  who  remarks  the  deed, 
none  of  the  Apostles  appear  to  realize  its  peculiar  significance,  and 
the  one  with  the  red  beard  appears,  even  as  the  Scripture  states,  to 
make  the  morose  remark,  "Why  was  not  this  ointment  sold  for 
three  hundred  pence  and  given  to  the  poor?"  This  economical 
Apostle  was  the  one  who  carried  the  purse,  the  familiarity  with 
money  and  business  appears  to  have  rendered  him  insensible  to  all 
the  unselfish  perfume  of  love,  he  would  gladly  exchange  it  for  pence 


—    3ö5  — 

for  a  practical  purpose,  and  it  was  just  he,  the  penny  changer,  who 
betrayed  the  Saviour — for  thirty  pence.  Thus  does  the  Bible  sym- 
bolically in  the  history  of  the  Banker  among  the  Apostles  reveal  the 
unholy  power  of  seduction  which  lurks  in  the  money-bag,  and  warn 
us  against  the  faithlessness  of  money  brokers.  Every  rich  man  is  a 
Judas  Iscariot. 

"You  are  making  faces  as  though  you  were  trying  to  choke  down 
your  piety,  dear  Doctor,"  whispered  my  Lady.  "  I  was  just  looking 
and — excuse  me  if  the  remark  is  slanderous — but  I  really  thought 
that  you  looked  like  a  good  Christian." 

"Between  you  and  me  I  am  so  ;  yes,  Christ — " 

"  Do  you  believe,  perhaps,  that  he  is  a  God  ?" 

"  That,  of  course,  my  good  Matilda.  He  is  the  God  whom  I 
mostly  love — not  because  he  is  a  legitimate  God  whose  Father  since 
time  immemorial  ruled  the  world  ;  but  because  he,  though  a  born 
Dauphin  of  Heaven  is  democratically  minded,  loving  no  courtly  cere- 
monial splendor,  because  he  is  not  a  God  of  shaven  and  shorn  book- 
ish pedants  and  laced  men-at-arms,  and  because  he  is  a  modest  God 
of  the  People,  a  citizen-GoD,  tin  hon  dieu  citoyen.  Truly,  if  Christ 
were  no  God,  I  would  vote  that  he  should  be  such,  and  much  rather 
than  an  absolute  God  who  has  forced  himself  to  power  would  I  obey 
him,  the  elected  God,  the  God  of  my  choice. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Archbishop,  a  solemn  grey  old  man,  read  mass  in  person  and 
to  tell  the  truth,  not  only  I,  but  even  to  a  certain  degree,  my  Lady, 
was  moved  by  the  spirit  latent  in  this  holy  ceremony  and  by  the 
sanctity  of  the  old  man  who  officiated  ; — albeit  every  old  man  is  in 
and  by  himself  a  priest,  and  the  ceremonies  of  the  Catholic  world 
are  so  primaevally  old  that  they  are  perhaps  the  only  ones  which 
have  remained  from  the  infancy  of  the  world  and  have  a  claim  on 
our  pious  feelings  as  a  memorial  of  the  first  forefathers  of  all  man- 
kind. "  Look,  my  Lady,"  said  I,  "  every  gesture  which  you  here 
behold,  the  manner  of  laying  on  the  hands  and  the  spreading  out  of 
the  arms,  this  bowing,  this  washing  of  the  hands,  this  burning  and 
offering  of  incense,  this  cup,  yes,  the  entire  clothing  of  the  man  from 
the  mytra*  to  the  hem  of  the  stole — all  is  ancient  Egyptian  and 

*  Mithra,  mvtra,  mitre. 

33 


—    386  — 

the  remains  of  a  priesthood  of  whose  wondrous  existence  the  oldest 
records  only  tell  us  a  little,  an  early  hierarchy  which  investigated  the 
first  wisdom  of  the  world,  which  discovered  the  first  gods,  which 
invented  the  first  symbols,  and  by  whom  young  humanity  " 

u  Was  first  cheated  and  betrayed,"  added  my  Lady,  in  a  bitter 
tone,  "  and  I  believe,  Doctor,  that  of  this  earliest  age  of  the  world 
there  remains  nothing  but  a  few  dreary  formulas  of  deceit.  And 
they  are  still  active  and  potent.  Only  look  there,  for  instance,  at 
the  fearfully  benighted  faces  ! — particularly  at  that  fellow  who  is 
planted  on  his  stupid  knees,  and  who,  with  his  wide,  staring  mouth, 
looks  so  much  like  an  ultra-blockhead." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  I"  I  remarked,  in  a  soothing  manner,  "  what 
does  it  matter  if  that  head  has  received  so  little  of  the  light  of 
reason?  What  is  that  to  us?  Why  should  that  irritate  you? 
Don't  you  see  every  day,  oxen,  cows,  dogs,  asses,  which  are  quite  as 
stupid  without  suffering  your  equanimity  to  be  disturbed  at  the  sight 
or  being  excited  to  angry  expressions  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  is  an  entirely  different  matter,"  rejoined  my  Lady,  "  for 
those  beasts  have  tails  behind,  and  I  vex  myself  just  forthat,  to  think 
that  a  fellow  who  is  so  bestially  stupid  has,  however,  behind  him. 
no  tail  at  all. 

«  Yes — that  is  a  very  different  matter,  indeed,  my  Lady  I* 


CHAPTER  IX. 

After  the  mass  there  was  still  much  to  see  and  to  hear,  especi- 
ally the  sermon  of  a  great  two-fisted  monk,  whose  bold,  command- 
ing old  Roman  countenance  contrasted  singularly  with  his  coarse 
cowl,  so  that  he  looked  like  the  Emperor  of  Poverty.  He  preached 
of  heaven  and  of  hell,  falling  at  times  into  the  wildest  enthusiasm. 
His  description  of  heaven  was  somewhat  barbarously  overloaded, 
since  he  filled  it  with  gold,  silver,  jewels,  costly  food  and  wine  of 
the  best  vintages.  He  made  too,  such  inspired  mouth-watering 
grimaces,  and  rolled  himself  to  and  fro  in  his  gown  as  though  he 
believed  himself  to  be  flying  among  white-winged  angels  and  one  of 
them.  Much  less  delightful,  yes,  even  very  practically  earnest,  was 
his  description  of  hell.  Here  the  man  was  far  more  in  his  element. 
He  was  especially  zealous  against  those  sinners  who  do  not  believe, 
as  Christianly  as  they  should,  in  the  old  fires  of  hell,  and  even  think 


—    387  — 

that  they  have  somewhat  cooled  down  of  late  preparatory  to  a 
general  extinguishment.  "  And,"  he  cried,  "  if  hell  were  going  out, 
then  would  I  with  my  breath  blow  up  the  last  glimmering  coals  till 
they  should  blaze  up  again  into  all  the  first  fury  of  their  flame." 
Had  any  one  heard  the  voice,  like  the  north  wind,  with  which  these 
words  were  howled  forth,  and  could  he  have  seen  the  glowing  face, 
the  red  neck  strong  as  a  buffalo's,  and  the  mighty  fist  of  the  monk, 
he  would  not  have  regarded  this  hellish  threat  as  a  hyperbole. 
"  Hike  this  man,"  said  my  Lady. 

"  There  you  are  right,"  I  replied,  "  and  he  pleases  me  too,  bettei 
than  our  soft  homoeopathic  spiritual  doctors,  who  dilute  their  one- 
ten-thousandth  grain  of  reason  with  a  bucket  of  moral  water,  and 
with  it  preach  us  to  repose  of  a  Sunday." 

"  Yes,  Doctor,  I  have  respect  for  his  hell,  but  I  can't  quite  agree 
with  him  as  to  his  heaven.  In  fact  I  very  early  had  my  doubts  as 
to  the  nature  of  heaven.  While  I  was  still  very  young  in  Dublin,  I 
often  lay  on  my  back  in  the  grass,  and  looked  up  at  heaven  and 
wondered  if  it  really  contained  so  many  splendid  things  as  people 
said  !  '  And,'  thought  I,  4  if  it  does,  why  is  it  that  none  of  these  fine 
things  ever  fall  down— say  a  diamond  ear-ring  or  a  pearl-necklace, 
or  at  least  a  piece  of  pine-apple  cake  ?  and  why  is  it  that  nothing 
but  hail,  snow  or  common  rain  ever  comes  down  ?  That  isn't 
exactly  as  it  should  be,'  thought  I — " 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  my  Lady  ?  Why  not  rather  be  silent 
with  such  doubts  ?  Unbelievers  who  put  no  faith  in  heaven  should 
not  make  proselytes  ;  I  much  less  blame — on  the  contrary  I  rather 
praise — the  efforts  of  those  convert-makers  who  have  a  splendid 
heaven  and  who,  so  far  from  wishing  to  keep  it  to  themselves,  invite 
their  fellow-mortals  to  share  it  with  them,  and  who  never  rest  till 
their  invitations  are  accepted." 

"  I  have  always  wondered,  Doctor,  that  so  many  rich  people  of 
that  sort,  such  as  Presidents,  Yice-Presidents  or  Secretaries  of 
societies  for  converting  unbelievers,  take  such  pains  to  make,  for 
instance,  some  rusty  old  Jew-beggar  fit  for  heaven,  and  to  secure  his 
future  society  there,  without  ever  so  much  as  dreaming  of  letting 
him  take  part  in  the  things  which  they  enjoy  here  on  earth — such  as 
inviting  him  during  summer  to  their  country-seats,  where  there  are 
beyond  question  dainties  which  would  taste  as  good  to  the  poor 
rogue  as  though  he  were  in  heaven  itself." 

u  That  is  intelligible  enough,  my  Lady  ;  the  heavenly  delights  cost 
nothing  and  it  is  often  a  double,  pleasure  when  we  can  make  our 


—   388  — 

fellow-beings  happy  at  so  slight  an  expense.  But  to  what  pleasures 
can  the  unbeliever  invite  any  one  ?" 

"  To  nothing,  Doctor,  but  to  a  long  peaceful  sleep,  which  may, 
however,  be  very  desirable  to  a  suffering  mortal,  especially  if  he  has 
been  previously  tormented  with  importunate  invitations  to  heaven." 

The  beautiful  woman  spoke  these  words  with  bitter  accents  which 
went  to  the  heart,  and  it  was  not  without  some  earnestness  that  ] 
replied  :  "  Dear  Matilda,  in  all  that  I  have  seen  and  done  in  this 
world  I  have  not  once  troubled  myself  as  to  whether  there  were  a 
heaven  or  a  hell.  I  am  too  great  and  too  proud  to  be  tempted  by 
heavenly  rewards  or  alarmed  by  the  punishments  of  hell.  I  strive 
for  the  good  because  it  is  beautiful  and  irresistibly  attracts  me,  and 
I  hate  the  bad  because  it  is  ugly  and  repulsive.  Even  as  a  boy 
when  I  read  Plutarch— and  I  still  read  him  every  night  in  bed  and 
often  feel  as  if  I  would  fain  jump  up  and  take  extra-post  and  become 
a  great  man — even  then  I  was  pleased  with  the  story  of  the  woman 
who  went  through  the  streets  of  Alexandria,  bearing  in  one  hand  a 
burning  torch  and  in  the  other  a  leathern  bottle  of  water,  crying  to 
the  multitude  that  with  the  water  she  would  quench  the  fire  of  hell 
and  with  the  torch  would  set  fire  to  heaven,  so  that  people  should 
cease  to  do  evil  merely  from  fear  of  punishment  and  not  do  good 
for  the  sake  of  reward.  All  our  deeds  should  spring  from  the  source 
of  an  unselfish  love,  whether  there  is  to  be  a  continuance  after  death 
or  not." 

"  Then  you  do  not  believe  in  immortality  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  are  shrewd,  my  Lady  !  /  doubt  it  ?  /,  whose  heart 
ever  strikes  deeper  and  deeper  root  into  the  most  distant  millen- 
niums of  the  past  and  of  the  future.  I,  who  am  myself  one  of  the 
most  immortal  of  men,  whose  every  breath  is  an  eternal  life,  whose 
every  thought  is  an  undying  star — I  disbelieve  in  immortality  !" 

"  I  think,  Doctor,  that  it  must  require  an  inordinate  share  of 
vanity  and  presumption  too,  after  enjoying  so  much  that  is  good 
and  beautiful  on  earth,  to  ask  immortality  of  the  Lord  in  addition 
to  it  all !  Man,  the  aristocrat  among  animals,  who  thinks  himself 
better  than  his  fellow-creatures,  would  like  also  to  work  out  for  him- 
self this  privilege  of  endless  life  by  court-like  hymns  of  adoration 
and  praise  and  kneeling-prayer.  Oh,  I  know  what  that  twitching 
of  the  lips  means,  my  immortal  gentleman  !" 


-    389  — 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Signora  begged  us  to  accompany  her  to  a  convent  where  a 
miraculous  cross,  the  most  remarkable  in  all  Tuscany,  was  preserved. 
And  it  was  well  that  we  left  the  Cathedral,  for  my  lady's  eccentrici- 
ties would  have  soon  got  us  into  a  scrape.  She  foamed  over  with 
brilliant  caprices,  pretty  and  pleasant  foolish  fancies,  which  leaped 
about  self-willed  and  wild  as  kittens.  On  leaving  the  Cathedral  she 
dipped  her  forefinger  three  times  in  the  holy  water,  and  sprinkled 
herself  with  it  each  time,  murmuring,  "  Dem  zrfardeyim  kinnim" 
which  is,  according  to  her  assertion,  the  Arabic  formula  used  by  sor- 
ceresses to  transform  a  human  being  to  an  ass. 

On  the  Piazza,  or  open  place  before  the  Cathedral,  a  body  of  troops, 
nearly  all  clad  in  Austrian  uniform,  were  exercising,  the  word  of 
command  being  given  in  German.  At  least  I  heard  the  German 
words — " Prcesentirts  Gewehr!  Fuss  Gewehr!  Schüllers  Gewehr! 
Rechts  um!  Halt!"*  I  believe  that  in  all  the  Italian,  as  well  as  in 
several  other  European  States  they  command  in  German.  Ought 
we  Germans  to  plume  ourselves  on  it?  Have  we  so  many  orders  to 
give  in  this  world  that  German  has  even  become  the  language  of  com- 
mand ?  Or  have  we  been  ordered  about  so  much  that  those  who  are 
obedient  and  subject  best  understand  the  German  tongue? 

My  Lady  did  not  seem  to  be  a  friend  to  parades  and  reviews : 
"  I  do  not  like,"  said  she,  "to  be  near  such  men  with  sabres  and  guns, 
particularly  when  they  march  along  in  great  numbers,  and  in  regular 
rows  in  great  reviews.  What  if  some  one  among  these  thousands  of 
men  should  suddenly  go  mad,  and  shoot  me  dead  on  the  spot  with 
the  musket  which  he  holds  in  his  hand?  Or,  what  if  he  should  sud- 
denly become  rational  and  think?  What  have  I  to  risk?  or  lose? 
even  if  they  should  take  my  life  ?  Perhaps,  the  other  world,  which 
they  promise  us,  isn't  so  brilliant  after  all,  as  they  say,  and  if  it  be 
ever  so  bad  they  certainly  cannot  give  me  less  than  six  kreutzers  a 
day — suppose,  then,  just  for  the  joke  of  the  thing,  that  I  stab  that 
little  English  lady  with  the  impertinent  nose?  Wouldn't  I  be  in  the 
greatest  danger  of  my  life  then  ?  If  I  were  a  king  I  would  divide 
my  soldiers  into  two  classes,  and  one  of  them  should  believe  in  im- 
mortality, so  that  they  might  be  brave  in  battle,  and  not  fear  death, 

*  Present  arms !   Ground  arms  I    Shoulder  arms!   Right  about  face !  Halt! 

33* 


—    390  - 


and  I  would  only  use  them  in  war.  But  the  others  should  be 
employed  in  parades  and  reviews,  and  lest  it  should  come  into  their 
heads  that  they  have  nothing  to  lose,  (and  so  kill  somebody  for  the 
sake  of  a  joke)  I  would  forbid  them  on  pain  of  death  to  believe  in 
immortality, — yes,  I  would  even  give  them  some  butter  on  their 
ammunition  bread,  so  that  they  might  have  a  real  fancy  to  live. 
But  the  first,  those  immortal  heroes,  should  have  a  right  hard  life 
of  it,  so  that  they  might  despise  mortality  and  regard  the  roar  of  the 
cannon  as  the  introduction  to  a  better  life." 

"  My  Lady,"  said  I,  "  you  would  be  but  an  indifferent  ruler.  You 
know  but  little  of  government,  and  nothing  at  all  of  politics.  If  you 
had  read  the  Political  Annals  " 

"I  understand  them,  perhaps,  even  better  than  you,  my  dear 
Doctor.  While  I  was  very  young,  I  tried  to  instruct  myself  in 
them.    While  I  was  still  young  iu  Dublin  " 

"  And  lay  on  your  back  in  the  grass — reflecting  or  not — as  at 
Ramsgate  " 

A  glance  as  of  a  light  reproach  of  ingratitude  shot  from  my  Lady's 
eyes,  but  she  then  smiled  again,  and  continued :  "  While  I  was  yet 
young  in  Dublin,  and  used  to  sit  on  a  corner  of  the  cricket  where 
mother's  feet  rested,  I  had  all  sorts  of  questions  to  ask,  what  the 
tailors,  the  shoemakers,  the  bakers,  in  short,  what  all  sorts  of  people 
had  to  do  in  the  world  ?  And  mother  explained  that  the  tailors 
made  clothes,  the  shoemakers  made  shoes,  the  bakers  baked  bread. — 
And  when  I  asked  what  the  kings  did?  Mother  told  me  that  they 
governed.  1  Dear  mother,'  I  replied  ;  '  do  you  know  that  if  I  were  a 
king,  I'd  go  one  whole  day  without  reigning,  just  to  see  how  it  looked 
in  the  world.'  '  Dear  child'  said  mother, '  many  a  king  does  that 
and  yet  the  world  looks  just  the  same  as  ever.'" 

"  Yes,  my  Lady,  your  mother  was  really  in  the  right.  Particularly 
here  in  Italy  are  there  such  kings,  as  we  see  for  instance  in  Pied- 
mont and  Naples  " 

"  Well  Doctor,  we  shouldn't  blame  an  Italian  king  for  not  reigning 
on  some  days  when  it  is  so  terribly  warm.  The  only  danger  is  that 
the  Carbonari  may  turn  such  a  day  to  account,  for  I  have  re- 
marked that  now-a-days  revolutions  always  break  out  on  those 
days  when  no  reigning  is  going  on.  If  the  Carbonari  made  a  mis- 
take and  believed  that  it  was  a  day  without  reigning,  when  contrary 
to  all  expectation  the  king  did  reign,  they  all  lost  their  heads. 
Therefore  the  Carbonari  can  never  be  careful  enough  and  must  be 
particular  in  choosing  their  time.    So  that  the  most  delicate  and 


—    391  — 

difficult  duty  of  the  king  is  to  keep  secret  those  days  when  there 
is  no  reigning,  and  then  they  should  at  least  sit  down  three  cr 
four  times  on  the  thrvme,  and  perhaps  mend  a  pen  or  seal  up  en- 
velopes, or  rule  white  paper — all  for  show  of  course — so  that  the  pea- 
pie  outside  who  peep  into  the  palace-windows  may  believe  in  ail 
sincerity  that  the  reigning  is  still  going  on." 

While  such  remarks  came  from  my  Lady's  delicate  little  mouth 
there  swam  a  smile  of  tranquil  happiness  around  the  full  rosy  lips  of 
Francesca.  She  scarcely  spoke,  but  her  gait  was  no  longer  inspired 
with  the  sighing  rapture  of  self-denial  so  manifest  on  the  previous 
evening.  She  now  walked  triumphantly  along,  every  step  the  sound 
of  a  trumpet ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  be  rather  a  spiritual  victory,  than 
one  of  this  world  which  inspired  her  movements.  She  was  almost 
the  ideal  image  of  a  church  triumphant,  and  around  her  head  swept 
an  invisible  glory.  But  the  eyes,  as  if  smiling  through  tears,  were 
again  those  of  a  child  of  this  world,  and  in  the  varied  stream  of 
humanity  which  swept  past  us  no  single  article  of  clothing  had 
escaped  her  searching  glance. 

"Ecco!"  was  her  exclamation,  "what  a  shawl! — the  Marquis 
shall  buy  me  such  a  cashmere  for  my  turban  when  I  dance  Roxe- 
lana.   Ah !  and  he  has  promised  me  a  diamond  cross  too  !" 

Poor  GKjmpelino  !  you  will  agree  to  the  shawl  without  much  de- 
murring— the  cross  however  will  cost  you  many  a  bitter  hour.  But 
Signora  will  torture  you  so  long  and  keep  you  so  long  on  the  rack 
that  you  must  at  last  give  in  to  her  wishes ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  church  in  which  the  miraculous  crucifix  of  Lucca  is  to  be  seen, 
belongs  to  a  monastery,  the  name  of  which  at  this  instant  has 
escaped  me. 

As  we  entered  the  church  there  lay  on  their  knees  before  the 
high  altar  a  dozen  monks  in  silent  prayer.  Only  now  and  then  they 
spoke,  as  if  in  chorus,  a  few  broken  words  which  echoed  as  it  were 
awefully  through  the  solitary  columned  aisles.  The  church  was 
dark,  except  that  through  small  painted  windows  fell  a  many-colored 
light  on  bald  heads  and  brown  cowls.  Unpolished  lamps  of  copper 
dimly  illuminated  the  blackened  frescoes  and  altar-pieces,  while  from 
the  wall  projected  carved  wooden  heads  of  saints,  coarsely  colored, 


—    392  — 

and  which  in  the  dubious  flickering  light  seemed  grinning  at  us  in 
grim  life.  Suddenly  my  lady  screamed  aloud,  and  pointed  to  a  tomb 
stone  beneath  our  feet,  on  which  in  relief  was  the  stiff  image  of  a 
bishop  with  mythra  and  crosier,  folded  hands  and  trodden  away  nose. 
"Ah!"  she  whispered,  "I  just  then  trod  rudely  on  his  stone  nose, 
and  now  he  will  appear  to  me  in  dreams,  and  then  his  nose — who 
knows  ?  " 

The  sacristan,  a  pale  young  monk,  showed  us  the  miraculous  cross, 
and  narrated  the  miracle  which  it  had  effected.  Whimsical  as  I  am, 
I  probably  did  not  appear  incredulous  on  this  occasion.  I  have  now 
and  then  my  attacks  of  belief  in  marvels,  especially  when,  as  in  this  in- 
stance the  place  and  the  hour  are  favorable  to  them,  and  I  then  believe 
that  everything  in  the  world  is  a  miracle  and  all  history  a  legend. 
Was  I  inspired  with  the  faith  in  marvels  of  Francesca  who  kissed 
the  "cross  with  the  wildest  enthusiasm  ?  I  was  vexed  and  annoyed 
with  the  wild  mockery  of  the  witty  English  lady — perhaps  I  was  the 
more  irritated  by  it  since  I  felt  that  I  was  not  myself  entirely  free  from 
the  contagion,  yet  still  regarded  it  as  by  no  means  praiseworthy.  It 
cannot  be  denied  that  the  passion  for  ridicule  and  mockery,  the  delight 
in  the  incongruity  of  things,  has  something  evil  in  it,  while  seriousness 
is  more  allied  with  the  better  feelings — virtue,  the  sense  of  liberty  and 
love  itself  are  very  serious.  Meanwhile  there  are  hearts  in  which 
jest  and  earnest,  the  bad  and  the  holy,  heat  and  cold  mingle  so 
strangely,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  pass  a  separate  judgment  on 
either.  Such  a  heart  swam  in  the  bosom  of  Matilda  ;  often  it  was  a 
freezing  island  of  ice  on  whose  polished  mirror-like  ground  there 
bloomed  forth  deeply  longing,  glowing  forests  of  palms — as  often  an 
enthusiastic  blazing  volcano,  which  was  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  a 
laughing  avalanche  of  snow.  She  was  by  no  means  evilly  inclined, 
with  all  her  abandon — not  even  sensuous  ;  nay,  I  believe  that  she  had 
only  caught  the  humorous  side  of  sensuality,  and  delighted  herself 
with  it  as  with  a  merry,  ridiculous  puppet  show.  It  was  a  humorous 
longing,  a  sweet  curiosity  to  know  how  this  or  that  queer  character 
would  behave  when  in  love.  How  entirely  different  was  Francesca  ! 
There  was  a  catholic  unity  in  all  her  thoughts  and  feelings.  By  day 
she  was  a  pale  yearning  moon,  by  night  a  glowing  sun — moon  of  my 
days  !  sun  of  my  nights  !  I  shall  never  see  thee  again  ! 

"  You  are  right,"  said  my  Lady,  "  I  also  believe  in  the  wonder- 
working powers  of  a  cross.  I  am  convinced  that  if  the  Marquis  does 
not  higgle  and  hesitate  too  long  over  the  diamond  cross,  it  will  cer- 
tainly work  a  brilliant  miracle  on  the  Signora,  and  she  will  be  at  last 


—    393  — 

so  dazzled  by  its  brilliancy  as  even  to  be  enamored  of  his  nose.  And 
I  have  often  heard  of  the  miraculous  powers  of  crosses  of  nobility 
which  have  the  power  of  changing  an  honest  man  into  a  rascal." 

And  so  the  beautiful  lady  ridiculed  everything.  She  flirted  with 
the  poor  sacristan — made  the  drollest  excuses  to  the  bishop  with  the 
worn-out  nose,  declining  in  the  politest  manner  any  return  of  her  call, 
and  as  we  came  to  the  holy-water  font,  she  again  attempted  to  turn 
me  into  an  ass. 

Whether  it  was  a  sincere  mood  inspired  by  the  place,  or  whether 
it  was  that  I  felt  inclined  to  rebuff  as  sharply  as  possible  this  jest, 
which  really  vexed  me,  I  know  not,  but  I  assumed  the  appropriate 
pathos,  and  spoke : 

"  My  Lady,  I  have  no  liking  for  those  of  your  sex  who  despise 
religion.  Beautiful  women  without  religion  are  like  flowers  without 
perfume,  resembling  those  cold  sober  tulips  which  look  upon  us 
from  their  porcelain  vases,  as  though  they  themselves  were  of  porce- 
lain, and  which  if  they  could  speak,  would  without  doubt,  explain  to 
us  how  very  naturally  they  grow  from  a  bulb,  how  all-sufficient  it  is 
for  any  one  here  below  not  to  smell  badly,  and  how,  so  far  as  per- 
fume is  concerned,  a  rational  flower  has  no  need  of  it  whatever." 

Even  at  the  very  mention  of  a  tulip,  my  Lady  was  in  a  state  of  the 
most  passionate  excitement,  and  as  I  spoke,  her  idiosyncracy  against 
the  flower  acted  so  powerfully,  that  she  held  her  ears  as  if  desperate. 
It  was  half  of  it  acted,  but  half  was  piqued  earnestness,  as  she  cast 
at  me  a  bitter  glance,  and  asked  from  her  very  heart,  and  with  all 
the  sharpness  of  irony — 

"And  you,  dear  flower,  which  of  the  current  religions  do  you 
profess  ?" 

"  I,  my  Lady,  have  them  all,  the  perfume  of  my  soul  rises  to 
Heaven  and  overcomes  even  the  immortal  gods  themselves." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

As  Signora  could  not  understand  our  conversation,  which  was 
carried  on  principally  in  English,  she  conceived  the  idea — Lord 
knows  how ! — that  we  were  quarrelling  about  the  pre-eminence  of  our 
respective  nations.  She,  therefore,  began  to  praise  the  English  and 
the  Germans  also,  although  at  heart  she  regarded  the  former  as 
wanting  sense,  and  the  latter  as  stupid.    And  she  had  a  peculiarly 


—    394  — 


bad  opinion  of  the  Prussians,  whose  country  according  to  her  geo- 
graphy, lay  far  beyond  England  and  Germany,  while  her  worst  ill-will 
was  reserved  for  the  King  of  Prussia,  the  great  Federigo,  before 
whom,  her  enemy  Signora  Seraphina,  had  danced  the  previous  year 
in  a  ballet  at  her  benefit :  for  singular  enough,  this  king,  that  is 
to  say,  Frederick  the  Great,  still  lives  on  the  Italian  stage,  and  in 
the  memory  of  the  Italian  people. 

"  No,"  said  my  Lady,  without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to 
Signora's  sweet  caresses  and  blandishments — "  no,  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  change  this  man  into  an  ass.  Why,  he  not  only  changes  his 
opinions  every  ten  steps  and  continually  contradicts  himself,  but 
now  he  even  turns  missionary,  and,  upon  my  word,  I  believe  he 
is  a  Jesuit  in  disguise.  I  must  make  up  devout  faces  myself  to  be 
safe,  or  else  he'll  give  me  over  to  his  fellow  hypocrites  in  Christ,  to 
the  dilettanti  of  the  Holy  Inquisition,  who  will  burn  me  in  effigy, 
since  the  police  does  not  as  yet  permit  them  to  throw  people  in  per- 
son into  the  fire.  Oh  !  honorable  gentleman,  dear  sir,  don't  believe 
that  I  am  as  intelligent  as  I  seem  to  be ;  indeed,  I  am  not  wanting  in 
religion,  I  am  not  a  tulip,  on  my  honor,  no  tulip  !  for  heaven's  sake, 
no  tulip — I  had  rather  believe  anything !  I  believe  now  in  the  prin- 
cipal things  in  the  Bible.  I  believe  that  Abraham  begat  Isaac,  that 
Isaac  begat  Jacob,  and  that  Jacob  begat  Judah,  and  that  Judah  in 
turn  "  knew"  his  daughter-in-law  Tamar  on  the  highway.  I  believe, 
too,  that  Lot  drank  too  much  with  his  daughters.  I  believe  that 
Potiphar's  wife  kept  in  her  hands  the  robes  of  Joseph.  I  believe  that 
both  the  elders  who  surprised  Susanna  in  her  bath  were  very  old. 
Moreover,  I  believe  that  the  patriarch  Jacob  cheated  first  his  brother 
and  then  his  father-in-law,  that  King  David  gave  Uriah  a  good  ap- 
pointment in  the  army,  that  Solomon  got  himself  a  thousand  wives 
and  then  complained  that  all  was  vanity  !  I  believe  in  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments, too ;  and  even  keep  most  of  them.  I  do  not  covet  my 
neighbor's  ox,  nor  his  maid-servant,  nor  his  cow,  nor  his  ass.  I  do 
not  work  on  the  Sabbath,  the  seventh  day  on  which  the  Lord  rested  ; 
yet,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  since  we  don't  know  exactly  which  was 
the  seventh  day  of  rest,  I  often  do  nothing  through  the  whole  week. 
But,  as  for  the  commandments  of  Christ,  I  always  obeyed  the  one 
which  is  most  important — that  we  should  love  our  enemies — for,  ah  ! 
those  persons  whom  I  have  best  loved,  were  always,  without  my 
knowing- it,  my  worst  enemies." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Matilda,  do  not  weep  !"  I  cried  as  there  once 
more  darted  forth  a  tone  of  the  acutest  anguish  from  the  most  genial 


—    395  — 

mockery  like  a  serpent  from  a  bed  of  flowers.  I  well  knew  that  tone 
which  often  thrilled  the  wild  and  witty  crystal-heart  of  the  strange 
and  lovely  woman,  powerfully  it  was  true,  but  never  for  a  long  time, 
aud  I  well  knew  that  it  would  vanish  as  readily  as  it  had  risen,  before 
the  first  jest  which  one  would  utter  to  her,  or  which  would  flit 
through  her  own  soul.  While  she  stood  leaning  against  the  mon- 
astery gate,  pressing  her  burning  cheeks  against  the  cold  stone,  and 
wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes  with  her  long  hair,  I  tried  to  revive  her 
merry  mood  by  mystifying  poor  Francesca  ;  giving  the  latter  the 
most  important  particulars  of  the  Seven  Years'  War,  which  appeared 
to  be  to  her  a  matter  of  especial  interest,  and  which  she  believed  to  be 
still  going  on.  I  told  her  many  interesting  things  of  the  great 
Federigo,  the  witty  gaiter-god  of  Sans  Souci  who  invented  the 
Prussian  monarchy,  and  when  young  played  right  well  on  the  flute  and 
made  French  verses.  Francesca  asked  me  if  the  Prussians  or  the 
Germans  would , conquer  ?  For,  as  I  have  already  intimated  she 
supposed  the  former  to  be  an  entirely  different  race,  and  it  is  indeed 
common  enough  in  Italy  to  imply  by  the  name  Germans  only  the 
natives  of  Austria.  Signora  was  not  a  little  astonished  when  I  told 
her  that  I  myself  had  lived  for  a  long  time  in  the  Capitate  delta 
Prussia,  that  is  to  say  in  Berelino,  a  city  which  lies  very  far  up  on 
the  map,  not  far  from  the  North  Pole.  She  shuddered  as  I  depicted 
to  her  the  dangers  to  wThich  one  is  there  exposed  from  the  Polar 
bears  which  stray  about  the  streets.  "  For  dear  Francisca,"  I  ex- 
plained to  her,  "in  Spitzbergen  there  are  by  far  too  many  bears 
which  lie  there  in  garrison  and  they  sometimes  visit  Berlin,  either 
inspired  by  desire  to  see  the  '  bear'*  and  the  Bassa,  or  else  to  eat  a 
good  dinner  at  Bergermann's  in  the  Cafe  Royal — an  indulgence  which 
sometimes  costs  more  money  than  they  have  with  them,  in  which 
case  one  of  the  bears  is  bound  down  there  until  his  companions 
return  and  pay  for  him,  whence  the  expression  of  ■  to  bind  a  bear,' 
originated.  Many  bears  live  in  the  city  itself ;  yes,  some  people  even 
assert  that  Berlin  owes  its  origin  to  the  bears  and  ought  really  to  be 
called  Bearlin.  The  town-bears  are  however  very  tame,  and  some 
of  them  are  so  highly  educated  that  they  write  the  most  beautiful 
tragedies  and  compose  the  finest  music.  Wolves  are  also  very  com- 
mon there,  but  as  they  generally  go  clad  in  sheet's  clothing  on 

*  Yide  page  86.  It  may  be  remarked  that  a  "  bear"  not  only  signifies  a  debt,  but  is 
also  used  by  students  as  an  abusive  epithet.  It  is  in  this  latter  sense  as  well  as  the 
former  that  Heine  here  uses  it. 


—    396  — 


account  of  the  cold,  they  are  difficult  to  recognize.  1  Snow-geese'* 
flutter  about  there  and  sing  bravura  airs,  while  reindeer,  f  who  are 
dear  enough  to  their  tenants,  reign  with  undisputed  sway  as  con- 
noisseurs in  art.  On  the  whole  the  Berliners  live  very  temperately 
and  industriously,  and  most  of  them  sit  buried  up  to  their  navels  in 
snow,  writing  works  of  positive  religion,  devotional  books,  religious 
tales  for  daughters  of  the  higher  classes,  catechisms,  sermons  for 
every  day  in  the  year,  Eloha-poems,  and  are  meanwhile  very  moral — 
for  they  sit  up  to  the  navel  in  snow." 

"Are  the  Berliners  then  Christians?"  cried  Signora,  in  amazement. 

"  Their  Christianity  is  of  a  peculiar  species.  This  religion  is  at 
bottom  utterly  and  entirely  wanting  in  them,  and  they  are  also,  much 
too  reasonable  to  seriously  practise  it.  But  as  they  know  that 
Christianity  is  necessary  in  a  state,  so  that  the  subjects  may  be  nicely 
obedient,  and  so  that  people  may  not  steal  and  murder  too  much, 
they  endeavor  with  great  eloquence,  to  at  least  convert  their  fellow 
beings  to  Christianity,  seeking  as  it  were  "substitutes"  in  a  religion, 
whose  maintenance  is  desirable  to  them,  and  whose  strict  practice  as 
well  as  profession  would  give  them  too  much  trouble.  In  this  di- 
lemma, they  employ  the  zealous  service  of  poor  Jews,  wrho  are 
obliged  to  become  Christians  for  them,  and  as  this  race  will  do  any- 
thing for  gold,  and  for  good  words,  they  have  at  length  exercised 
themselves  completely  into  the  very  depths  of  Christianity.  Yes — 
so  deeply  that  they  cry  out  as  well  as  the  best  against  unbelief, 
fight  as  for  life  and  death  for  the  Trinity,  believe  in  it  even  in  the 
dog-days,  rage  against  the  naturalists,  slip  secretly  around  in  many 
lands  as  missionaries  and  spies  of  the  faith,  circulate  tracts,  roll  up 
their  eyes  better  than  any  one  in  the  churches,  make  the  most  hypo- 
critical faces,  and  act  piety  with  such  success,  that  the  old  1  two  of  a 
trade'  envy  is  beginning  already  to  show  itself,  and  the  old  masters 
of  the  business  secretly  bewail  that  Christianity  is  at  present  entirely 
in  the  hands  of  the  Jews." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Though  Signora  did  not  understand  me,  you  at  least  dear  reader 
will  have  no  difficulty  in  doing  so.    My  Lady  also  understood  me, 

*  Schneegaense  from  Schneegans.    Lat.  Anser  hyperborceus,  soft  white  pretty  misses  of 
the  kind  which  reminded  Thackeray  of  rabbits, 
f  Eennthiere,  a  reindeer.   Eentirer,  one  who  lives  on  his  rents. 


—    397  — 


and  the  effect  thereof  was  to  revive  her  good  humor.  But  as  I — (I 
do  not  really  know  if  it  was  done  with  a  serious  expression) — under- 
took to  assert  that  the  multitude  needed  a  settled  religion,  she  could 
not  refrain  from  again  attacking  me  in  her  peculiar  manner. 

"  People  must  have  a  religion  !"  she  cried.  "  Always  must  I  hear 
that  text  preached  by  a  thousand  stupid,  and  by  endless  thousands 
of  hypocritical  lips  " 

"And  yet  my  Lady  it  is  true.  As  the  mother  cannot  answer 
every  question  to  the  child  with  truth,  because  its  power  of  compre- 
hension is  not  sufficient,  so  in  like  manner  there  must  be  a  positive 
religion,  a  church  which  can  answer  for  the  people  according  to  their 
comprehension,  and  reduce  to  the  test  of  the  senses,  all  such  ques- 
tions as  transcend  sensation." 

"  Oh  misery  !  Doctor,  your  very  comparison  puts  me  in  mind  of  a 
story  which  in  its  application  is  not  very  favorable  to  your  theory. 
While  I  was  yet  young  in  Dublin  " 

"  And  lay  on  your  back  " 

"  Pshaw !  Doctor,  there's  no  speaking  a  reasonable  word  with 
you — stop  laughing  at  me,  I  say,  in  that  indecent  way  and  listen. 
While  I  was  still  young  in  Dublin  and  sat  at  my  mother's  feet,  I 
once  asked  what  people  did  with  the  old  full  moons.  'My  dear 
child,'  said  mother,  1  the  Lord  breaks  the  old  moons  to  pieces  with 
the  sugar  hammer,  and  makes  little  stars  of  them.'  One  shouldn't 
blame  my  mother  for  telling  such  a  story,  for  with  the  very  best 
astronomical  knowledge,  she  could  never  have  explained  to  me  the 
whole  system  of  the  sun,  moon  and  stars,  and  she  accordingly 
answered  the  supernatural  question  in  a  natural  way.  But  it  would 
have  been  better  had  she  put  off  the  question  until  I  was  older,  or  at 
least  told  me  the  plain  truth.  For  when  I  afterwards  was  looking  with 
little  Lucy  at  the  full  moon,  and  explained  to  her  how  stars  were  to 
be  made  from  it,  she  laughed  at  me  and  said  that  her  grandmother, 
old  Mrs.  O'Meara,  had  told  lier  that  the  full  moons  were  eaten  in 
hell  for  fire-melons,  and  because  there  was  no  sugar  there,  they 
sprinkled  them  with  pepper  and  salt.  As  Lucy  had  at  first  laughed 
at  my  naive  evangelic  opinion,  so  I  now  laughed  at  her  gloomy 
catholic  idea,  from  laughing  we  got  to  fighting;  we  scratched,  and  we 
spit  at  each  other  in  the  real  polemic  style,  until  little  O'Doxxel 
came  out  of  school  and  separated  us.  This  boy  had  been  better 
instructed  than  we  in  the  heavenly  science,  he  understood  mathema- 
tics, and  calmly  explained  to  us  our  mutual  errors,  and  the  folly  of 
oar  quarrel.    And  what  was  the  result?    Why  we  two  girls  at  once 

34 


—    398  — 


stopped  our  quarrel,  aud  united  our  forces  to  give  the  quiet  little 
mathematician  a  good  beating." 

"My  Lady,  I  am  troubled,  grieved  at  what  you  say,  for  you  are  in 
the  right.  But  matters  can't  be  changed,  people  will  always  go  on 
fighting  as  to  the  pre-eminence  of  the  conceptions  of  religion,  which 
were  first  instilled  into  their  minds,  and  the  reasonable  men  among 
them  will  thereby  be  doomed  to  double  suffering.  Once,  of  course- 
things  were  different,  when  it  never  occurred  to  any  one  to  particularly 
extol  the  doctrines  or  solemnity  of  his  religion,  or  to  press  it  on  any 
one.  Religion  was  a  dear  and  beautiful  tradition,  holy  narratives, 
commemorative  festivals  and  mysteries  were  handed  down  from 
ancestors  as  the  sacred  family  rites  of  the  people,  and  it  would  have 
been  a  harsh  and  cruel  thing  for  a  Greek,  if  a  foreigner,  not  of  his 
race,  had  demanded  fellowship  in  the  same  religion  with  him  ;  and 
it  would  have  seemed  to  him  a  still  more  inhuman  thing,  to  induce 
any  one  by  compulsion  or  cunning,  to  give  up  the  religion  to  which 
he  was  born,  and  to  substitute  for  it  a  strange  one.  But  there  came 
a  race  from  Egypt,  from  the  fatherland  of  the  crocodile  and  of  priest- 
hood, and  in  addition  to  cutaneous  diseases,  and  the  stolen  vessels  of 
gold  and  silver,  this  race  brought  with  it  a  so-called  positive  religion, 
a  so-called  church,  a  structure  of  dogmas,  in  which  men  must  believe, 
and  holy  ceremonies  which  men  must  celebrate — the  first  type  of 
later  religions  of  state.  Then  arose  the  endless  finding  of  faults  in 
human  nature,  the  making  of  proselytes,  the  compulsion  of  faith,  and 
all  that  holy  torture  which  has  cost  the  human  race  so  much  blood, 
and  so  many  tears." 

"  God  damn  this  -pnmevil  race  I"* 

"  Oh,  Matilda,  it  has  long  been  damned,  and  has  dragged  the 
agonies  of  its  damnation  with  it  for  thousands  of  years.  0,  this 
Egypt !  her  works  defy  time,  her  pyramids  still  stand  un shattered  as 
of  old,  her  mummies  are  as  imperishable  as  ever,  and  not  less  imper- 
ishable is  that  mummy  of  a  race,  which  wanders  over  the  world 
wrapped  in  most  ancient  swathing  bands  of  letters,  a  petrified  frag- 
ment of  the  History  of  the  World,  a  spectre  which  gets  its  living  by 
trading  in  bills  of  exchange  and  old  pantaloons.  My  Lady,  do  you 
see  yonder,  that  old  man  with  a  white  beard,  the  point  of  which 
seems  to  be  growing  black  again, — a  man  with  ghost-like  eyes." 

"  Are  not  the  ruins  of  the  old  Roman  graves  there?" 

"  Yes — and  there  he  sits  offering  his  prayer,  a  fearful  prayer,  in 


*  Goddamm  !  dieses  Uruebelvolk. 


—    399  — 


which  he  bewails  his  sufferings,  and  accuses  races  which  have  long 
since  vanished  from  the  earth,  and  now  live  only  in  nursery  legends — 
while  he  in  his  pain,  scarce  marks  that  he  sits  on  the  graves  of  those 
very  enemies  for  whose  destruction  he  prays  to  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

I  spoke  in  the  previous  chapter  of  positive  religions,  only  so  far  as 
they  are  especially  privileged  by  the  state,  as  churches,  under  the 
name  of  state-religions.  But  there  is  a  pious  dialectic,  dear  reader, 
which  will  prove  to  you  in  the  most  convincing  manner,  that  the 
opponent  of  the  ecclesiastical  system  of  such  a  religion  of  state  is 
also  an  enemy  of  religion,  and  of  the  state,  an  enemy  of  God  and  of 
the  king,  or  as  the  common  formula  reads,  an  enemy  of  the  throne 
and  of  the  altar.  But  /  tell  you  that  it  is  a  lie,  I  honor  the  real 
holiness  of  every  religion,  and  conform  myself  to  the  interests  of  the 
state.  And  if  I  do  not  render  homage,  and  devote  myself  to  Anthro- 
pomorphism, I  still  believe  in  the  power  and  glory  of  God,  and  even 
though  kings  are  so  insane  as  to  resist  the  spirit  of  the  people,  or 
even  so  ignoble  as  to  oppress  their  organs  by  neglect  and  persecu- 
tion, I  still  remain,  in  accordance  with  my  deepest  conviction,  an 
adherent  to  the  kingdom  and  to  the  monarchical  principle.  I  do  not 
hate  the  throne,  but  I  do  those  windy  nothings  of  aristocratic  vermin 
which  have  nestled  in  the  crannies  of  the  old  throne,  and  whose  cha- 
racter Montesquieu  has  described  so  accurately  with  the  words : 
"  Ambition  hand  in  hand  with  Indolence,  Yulgarity  allied  to  Pride, 
the  longing  to  become  rich  without  labor,  the  dislike  of  truth,  flat- 
tery, treachery,  faithlessness  and  the  breaking  of  words,  the  con- 
tempt of  the  duties  of  the  citizen,  the  fear  of  princely  virtue,  and  an 
interest  in  princely  vice  I"  I  do  not  hate  the  altar,  but  I  hate  the 
serpents  which  lurk  amid  the  loose  stones  of  the  old  altar ;  those 
malignantly  cunning  snakes  which  can  smile  innocently  as  flowers, 
while  they  secretly  spirt  their  poison  into  the  cup  of  life,  and  hiss 
slander  into  the  ear  of  the  pious  one  praying ;  those  glossy,  gliding 
worms  with  soft  sweet  words  : 

Mel  in  ore,  verba  1  actis 

Fei  in  corde,  fraus  in  factis."* 


*  It  were  a  pity  to  spare  the  lover  of  Latin  rhymes  a  line  ol  this  fine  old  proverb,  wbich 


—    400  — 


And  just  because  I  am  a  friend  of  the  state  and  of  religion,  do  I 
hate  that  abortion  termed  the  religion  of  state,  that  mockery  of  a 
creation,  which  was  born  of  the  lewd  love  of  the  worldly  and  the 
spiritual  powers,  that  mule  which  the  white  stallion  of  Anti-Christ 
begot  upon  the  she-ass  of  Christ.  If  there  were  no  such  religion  of 
state,  no  privilege  of  dogma  and  of  a  religion,  Germany  would  be  united 
and  strong,  and  her  sons  lordly  and  free.  But  as  it  is,  our  poor  Father- 
land is  torn  by  divisions  of  creeds,  the  people  are  separated  into  war- 
ring parties  in  religion,  Protestant  subjects  quarrel  with  Catholic 
princes,  or  vice-versa,  everywhere  there  is  mistrust,  or  crypto- 
Catholicism  or  crypto-Protestantism,  accusations  of  heresy,  espion- 
age of  views  and  opinions,  pietism,  mysticism,  smelliug  of  rats  by 
church  journals,  sectarian  hatred  and  zeal  for  conversion,  so  that  while 
we  fight  for  heaven  above,  we  are  all  going  to  the  devil  here  on  earth 
below.  An  indifferentism  in  religion  would  be,  perhaps,  the  only 
thing  which  could  save  us,  and  by  becoming  weak  in  faith,  Germany 
might  grow  politically  strong. 

But  it  is  as  ruinous  for  religion  itself,  and  for  her  holy  existence, 
when  she  is  clad  with  privileges,  and  when  her  servants  are  espe- 
cially endowed  by  the  state  with  power  to  represent  it,  so  that  one 
hand  as  it  were  washes  the  other,  the  religious  the  worldly,  and  vice- 
versa,  from  which  a  wish-wash  results  which  is  to  the  blessed  Loed  a 
folly,  and  to  man  a  torture.  If  the  state  has  opponents,  they  will 
become  foes  to  the  religion  which  confers  privileges  on  the  state,  and 
consequently  renders  them  allies ;  and  even  the  innocent  believer 
will  become  mistrustful  when  he  detects  political  objects  in  religion. 
But  the  most  repulsive  of  all  is  the  pride  of  the  priests  when  they, 
for  the  service  which  they  think  they  have  done  the  state,  presume 

crackles  like  a  fire  of  twigs  in  so  many  eccentric  collections  of  the  XVI.  and  XVII.  cen- 
turies. 

K  Multis  annis  jam  peractis 
Nulla  fides  est  in  pactis, 
Mel  in  ore.  verba  lactis, 
Fel  in  corde,  fraus  in  factis." 

and  which  is  translated  in  the  following  very  slip-shod  manner,  in  "  The  Sketch  Book  of 
Meister  Karl:" 

u  For  many  years,  my  friend,  the  fact  is, 
That  honesty  is  out  of  practice, 
And  houeid  words  and  fawning  smile 
Are  ever  mixed  with  fraud  and  guile." 
I  have  somewhere  met  with  another  version  of  these  rhymes,  in  which  the  first  line 
was  given  thus : 

"Omnibus  rebus  jam  peractis." 

[Notes  by  Translator. 


—    401  — 

to  count  upon  the  support  of  the  latter,  and  when  they  in  return  for 
the  spiritual  fetters  which  they  have  lent  the  state  to  bind  the  people, 
betake  themselves  to  the  protection  of  the  state's  bayouets.  Reli- 
gion can  never  sink  so  low  as  when  she  is  in  such  a  manner  raised  to 
a  religion  of  state,  her  last  claim  to  innocence  is  then  vitiated,  and 
she  becomes  as  brazenly  proud  as  a  declared  coucubine.  Of  course, 
more  homage  and  assurances  of  reverence  are  then  made  her,  she 
every  day  celebrates  new  conquests  in  gleaming  processions,  where 
even  generals  who  once  served  under  Bonaparte  bear  torches,  the 
proudest  spirits  swear  fidelity  to  her  banner,  day  by  day  unbelievers 
are  converted  and  baptized — but  all  this  pouring  on  of  water  butters 
no  parsnips,  and  the  new  recruits  of  the  religion  of  state  are  like 
those  of  Falstaff— they  fill  the  state.  As  for  self-sacrifice  no  one 
even  speaks  of  such  a  thing,  the  missionaries  with  their  tracts  and 
books  travel  about  like  commercial  agents  with  their  samples — there 
is  no  longer  any  danger  in  the  business,  and  all  goes  on  in  a  regular 
mercantile  economical  form. 

Only  so  long  as  religions  are  rivals  and  more  persecuted  than  per- 
secutors, are  they  noble  and  worthy  of  honor,  and  only  then  do  we 
find  inspiration  sacrifice,  martyrs  and  palms.  How  beautiful,  how 
holy  and  lovely,  how  strangely  sweet  was  the  Christianity  of  the 
early  ages  while  it  as  yet  resembled  its  divine  Founder  in  the  heroism 
of  suffering !  Then  there  was  still  the  legend  of  a  god,  all  their 
own,  who,  in  the  form  of  a  gentle  youth,  wandered,  under  the  palms 
of  Palestine  and  preached  human  love,  and  set  forth  those  doctrines 
of  freedom  and  of  equality,  which  at  a  later  day  were  recognised  as 
true  by  the  reason  of  the  greatest  thinkers,  and  which  as  a  French 
gospel  inspired  our  age.  But  let  any  one  compare  that  religion  of 
Christ  with  the  different  Christianities  which  have  been  formed  in 
different  countries  as  religions  of  state — for  instance,  the  Roman 
Apostolic  Catholic  Church,  or  even  that  Catholicism  without  poetry 
which  we  see  ruling  as  "  High  Church  of  England,"  that  dismal, 
crumbling  skeleton  of  faith  from  which  all  fresh  life  has  departed  ! 
The  monopoly  of  system  is  as  injurious  to  religions  as  to  trades, 
they  are  only  strong  and  energetic  by  free  competition,  and  they  will 
again  bloom  up  in  their  primitive  purity  and  beauty,  so  soon  as  the 
political  equality  of  the  Lord's  service,  or  so  to  speak,  so  soon  as  the 
trades-freedom  of  the  divinities  is  introduced. 

The  noblest  minded  men  in  Europe  have  long  since  asserted  that 
this  is  the  only  means  to  preserve  religion  from  an  utter  overthrow ; 
but  its  present  servants  would  sooner  sacrifice  the  altar  itself  than 

Q  <* 

O-t 


—    402  — 


the  least  thing  which  is  sacrificed  on  it;  just  as  the  nobility  would 
sooner  give  up  to  utter  destruction  the  throne  and  the  illustrious 
Highness  seated  thereon,  than  that  he  should  seriously  give  up  the 
most  improper  of  his  proper  privileges.  But  is  the  affected  interest 
for  throne  and  altar  only  a  mocking  show  played  off  before  the  people  ? 
He  who  has  been  behind  the  scenes  and  peeped  into  the  mysteries 
of  the  business,  knows  that  the  priests  do  not  so  much  as  the  laity 
respect  that  God,  whom  they,  for  their  own  profit  and  at  will  knead 
from  bread  and  words,  and  that  the  nobility  respect  the  king  much 
less  than  a  serf  would  have  them  do,  and  that  they  in  their  hearts, 
scorn  and  despise  even  that  royalty  for  which  they  in  public  manifest 
so  much  honor,  and  seek  to  awaken  respect  in  others ;  in  fact,  they 
resemble  those  people  who  exhibit  for  money  to  the  gaping  public  in 
booths  on  the  market  place,  a  Hercules,  or  a  giant,  or  a  dwarf,  or  a 
savage,  or  a  fire-eater,  or  some  other  remarkable  man  of  whom  they 
praise  the  strength,  size,  bravery  and  invulnerability ;  or  if  he  is  a 
1  dwarf,  his  wisdom.  All  this  they  do  with  the  most  incredible  readi- 
ness of  speech,  blowing  at  times  their  trumpet,  and  wearing  a  gayly 
colored  jacket,  while  in  their  hearts  they  laugh  at  the  ready  faith  of 
the  staring  people,  and  mock  the  poor  be-praised  subject,  who  by 
dint  of  daily  intercourse  has  become  very  uninteresting  to  them, 
and  whose  weaknesses  and  whose  arts  acquired  by  training,  they 
understand  only  too  accurately. 

Whether  the  blessed  Lord  will  long  suffer  the  priests  to  pass  off  a 
bug-bear  for  him,  and  make  money  by  the  show  is  more  than  I 
know; — at  least  it  would  cause  me  no  surprise  if  I  should  some  day 
read  in  the  Ham  bury  Impartial  Correspondent,  that  the  old  Jehovah 
warns  every  one  against  giving  credit  in  his  name  to  any  one,  no 
matter  who  he  be,  or  even  to  his  own  son.  But  I  am  convinced — 
and  time  will  show  it — that  there  will  come  a  day,  when  kings  will 
no  longer  submit  to  be  the  show-puppets  of  their  high-born  despisers, 
when  they  will  burst  loose  from  etiquette,  and  break  down  the 
marble  booths  in  which  they  are  shown.  Then  they  will  disdainfully 
cast  aside  the  shining  frippery*  intended  to  impose  upon  the  people, 
the  red  mantle  which  terrified,  in  such  a  headsman-like  manner,  the 
diamond  tiara  which  was  pulled  over  their  ears  that  they  might  not 
hear  the  voices  of  the  people,  the  golden  rod  given  as  a  sham  sign  of 
supremacy  into  their  hands — and  the  kings  set  free  will  become  free 

*  Plunder"  in  the  original,  meaning  frippery,  lumber,  trash,  baggage  and  also  plunder. 
The  same  word  is  used  in  the  same  senses  in  the  Western  United  States.  "  So  Tom  got 
Judy  and  all  her  plunder." — Crockett's  Almanac.  [Note  by  Translator. 


—    403  — 


as  other  men,  and  walk  freely  among  them,  and  feel  free,  and  marry 
free,  and  express  their  opinions  freely,  and  that  will  be  the  emanci-» 
pation  of  monarchs. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

But  what  are  the  aristocrats  to  do  when  they  have  been  robbed 
of  their  crowned  means  of  subsistence,  when  kings  are  a  special  pro- 
perty of  the  people,  maintaining  an  honorable  and  stable  govern- 
ment accordiug  to  the  will  of  the  people — the  only  source  of  all 
power?  What  will  the  priests  do  when  kings  perceive  that  a  little 
consecrated  oil  cannot  make  any  human  head  guillotine-proof,  just 
as  the  people  on  their  part  learn  from  day  to  day,  that  no  one  can 
grow  fat  on  sacramental  wafers  ?  Well,  of  course  nothing  will  then 
remain  for  the  aristocracy  and  clergy,  save  to  join  hands,  and  cabal 
and  intrigue  against  the  new  order  of  things  in  this  world. 

Yain  efforts  !  The  age  like  a  fiery  giantess  tranquilly  advances, 
giving  no  heed  to  the  chatter  of  the  snappish  priestlings  and  lord- 
lings  down  below.  How  they  howl  whenever  one  of  them  has  burnt 
his  snout  on  the  foot  of  the  giantess,  or  when  she  has  trodden  un- 
wittingly upon  a  head  or  two,  so  that  the  dark  reactionary  poison 
spirts  forth !  Then  their  vindictiveness  turns  all  the  more  bitterly 
against  single  children  of  the  age,  and  powerless  against  the  mass, 
they  seek  to  assuage  their  cowardly  spark  of  spirit  on  individuals. 

Ah!  we  must  confess  that  many  a  poor  child  of  the  age  feels  none 
the  less  the  stabs  which  he  receives  in  the  dark,  from  lurking  lords  and 
priests,  and  oh !  though  a  glory  gathers  around  the  wounds  of  the 
conqueror,  yet  they  still  bleed  and  smart !  It  is  a  strange  martyr- 
dom, that  which  such  conquerors  endure  in  our  days,  and  one  which 
cannot  be  done  away  with  by  bold  confession,  as  in  those  early 
ages  when  the  martyrs  found  a  speedy  scaffold,  or  the  burning  pile 
with  its  wild  hurrahs!  The  spirit  of  martyrdom  to  sacrifice  all 
earthly  things  for  a  heavenly  jest,  is  still  the  same  as  ever ;  but  it 
has  lost  much  of  its  deepest  cheerfulness  of  faith,  it  has  become 
rather  a  resigned  endurance,  a  firm  holding  out,  a  lifelong  dying,  and 
it  even  happens  that  in  cold  gray  hours  even  the  holiest  martyrs  are 
assailed  by  doubts.  There  is  nothing  so  terrible  as  hours  like  those 
wherein  Marcus  Brutus  began  to  doubt  the  reality  of  that  virtue 
for  which  he  had  suffered  all  things.    And,  ah !  he  was  a  Roman  who 


—    404  — 

lived  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  Stoa ;  but  we  are  of  modern  softer 
*tuff,  and  withal  we  witness  the  successful  course  of  a  philosophy, 
which  grants  to  any  inspiration  whatever  only  a  relative  significance, 
and  thus  in  itself  annihilates  it,  or  at  any  rate,  neutralises  it  into  a 
self-conscious  Don  Quixotery. 

The  cool,  calm,  cunning  philosophers  !  How  compassionately  they 
smile  on  the  self-torture  and  mad  freaks  of  a  poor  Don  Quixote,  yet 
with  all  their  school-wisdom  do  not  perceive  that  that  Don  Quixotery 
is  the  most  laudable  thing  in  life,  yes,  life  itself,  and  that  it  inspires 
to  bolder  effort  the  whole  world,  and  all  in  it  which  philosophises, 
plays,  plants  and  gapes  !  For  the  great  mass  of  the  people,  with  the 
philosophers,  is,  without  knowing  it,  nothing  but  a  colossal  Sancho 
Panza  who,  despite  all  his  sober  dread  of  whippings  and  homely 
wisdom,  still  follows  the  knight  in  all  his  dangerous  adventures, 
lured  by  the  promised  reward  in  which  he  believes,  because  he  longs 
for  it,  but  still  more  attracted  by  the  mystic  power  which  enthusiasm 
always  exerts  on  the  masses — as  we  see  in  all  political  and  religious 
revolutions,  and  it  may  be,  also,  daily  in  the  smallest  events. 

Thus,  for  example,  you,  dear  reader,  are  in  spite  of  yourself  the 
Sancho  Panza  of  the  insane  poet,  whom  you  follow  through  the 
erratic  mazes  of  this  book — it  may  be  while  shaking  your  head  mis- 
givingly — but  whom  you  still  follow. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Strange  !  The  Life  and  Deeds  of  the  Sagacious  Knight  Don 
Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  written  by  Don  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saa- 
vedra,  was  the  first  book  which  I  read  after  I  had  attaiued  a  tolerably 
boy  age  of  discretion,  and  had  become  to  a  certain  degree  familiar  with 
the  nature  of  letters.  I  can  well  remember  the  bit  of  leisure  time, 
when  I  early  one  morning  stole  away  from  home,  and  hastened  to  the 
Court  Garden,  that  I  might  read  Don  Quixote  without  being  dis- 
turbed. It  was  a  beautiful  May-day,  the  blooming  Spring  lay  lurking 
in  the  silent  morning  light,  listening  to  the  sweet  praises  of  her 
flatterer  the  nightingale,  and  the  bird  sang  so  softly  and  caressingly, 
with  such  melting  enthusiasm,  that  the  most  shamefaced  buds  sprang 
into  life,  and  the  love-longing  grass  and  the  sun-rays  quivering  in 
perfume,  kissed  more  hurriedly,  and  trees  and  flowers  trembled  for 
sheer  rapture.    But  I  sat  myself  down  on  an  old  mossy  stone-bench  in 


—    405  — 


the  so-called  "  walk  of  sighs,"  and  solaced  my  little  heart  with  the 
great  adventures  of  the  daring  knight.  In  my  childish  uprightness 
of  heart,  I  took  it  all  in  sober  earnest,  and  ridiculously  as  the  poor 
hero  was  treated  by  luck,  I  still  thought  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
course,  and  must  be  so,  the  being  laughed  at  as  well  as  being 
wounded,  and  that  troubled  me  sadly  as  I  sympathised  with  it  all  in 
my  soul.  I  was  a  child,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  irony  which  God 
had  twined  into  his  world  as  he  created  it — and  I  could  have  found  it 
in  my  heart  to  weep  the  bitterest  tears,  when  the  noble  knight,  for 
all  his  heroic  courage  received  only  ingratitude  and  blows  ;  and  as  I, 
who  was  as  yet  unpractised  in  reading,  pronounced  every  word 
aloud,  it  was  possible  for  birds  and  trees,  brook  and  floVers  to  hear 
everything  with  me,  and  as  such  innocent  beings  of  nature  knew  as 
little  as  children  of  the  irony  of  the  great  world,  they  took  it  all  for 
sober  earnest,  and  wept  with  me  over  the  sorrows  of  the  poor  knight; 
even  a  worn-out  old  oak  sighed  deeply,  and  a  water-fall  shook  more 
rapidly  his  white  beard  and  seemed  to  scold  at  the  wickedness  of  the 
world.  We  felt  that  the  heroic  will  of  the  knight,  was  not  the  less 
worthy  of  admiration,  when  the  lion  turned  tail  on  jjira  without 
wishing  to  fight,  and  that  his  deeds  were  the  more  praiseworthy  in 
proportion  to  the  weakness  and  meagreness  of  his  frame,  the  brittle- 
ness  of  his  armor,  and  the  worthlessness  of  his  palfrey.  We  despised 
the  base  mob  who  treated  him  with  such  thrashing  rudeness,  and 
still  more  that  mob  of  a  higher  rank,  which,  ornamented  with  gay 
silk  attire,  aristocratic  phrase  and  ducal  titles,  scorned  a  man  who 
was  in  strength  of  soul  so  immeasurably  their  superior.  Dulcinea's 
Knight  rose  higher  in  my  estimation,  and  gained  more  and  more  in 
my  love,  the  more  I  read  in  that  wondrous  book — and  that  I  did 
every  day  in  the  same  garden,  so  that  by  the  Autumn  I  had  con- 
cluded the  story— and  never,  in  all  my  life,  shall  I  forget  the  day  on 
which  I  read  of  the  sorrowful  combat  wherein  the  knight  was  so 
shamefully  subdued  ! 

It  was  a  gloomy  day,  hideous  clouds  swept  along  the  grey  heaven, 
the  yellow  leaves  fell  painfully  from  the  trees,  heavy  tears  hung  on 
the  last  flowers,  which  fading  in  sorrow  sunk  their  dying  heads,  the 
nightingales  had 'lung  been  silent,  the  image  of  all  things  passing 
away  stared  at  me  still  and  deathlike  on  every  side, — and  my  head 
was  all  but  broken  as  I  read  how  the  noble  knight  lay  bewildered 
and  crushed  on  the  -ground,  and  without  removing  his  vizor,  spoke 
with  weak  and  sickly  voice  to  the  victor  as  though  from  the  grave : 
"  Dulcinea  is  the  fairest  woman  in  the  world,  and  I  am  the  most 


—   406  — 


unfortunate  Knight  on  earth,  but  it  is  not  fit  that  my  weakness 
should  give  the  lie  to  this  truth — so  on  with  thy  lance,  Knight!" 

Ah!  this  gleaming  Knight  of  the  silver  moon,  who  conquered  the 
bravest  and  noblest  man  in  the  world,  was  a  disguised  barber  I 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

That  was  all  long,  long  ago.  Many  fresh  springs  have  bloomed 
since  then,  but  they  were  all  wanting  in  their  greatest  charm,  for 
alas !  I  no  longer  believe  in  the  sweet  falsehoods  of  the  nightingale, 
the  flatterer  of  Spring,  I  know  how  quickly  its  bloom  passes  away, 
and  when  I  see  the  latest  rosebuds,  I  see  them  blooming  forth  glow- 
ing with  pain,  growing  pale  and  scattering  in  the  wind.  On  every 
hand  I  perceive  a  winter  in  disguise. 

But  in  my  breast  that  flaming  love  still  blooms  which  rises  full  of 
longing  over  the  whole  earth  and  sweeps  dreamily  and  wildly,  through 
the  yawning  realms  of  heaven,  is  struck  back  by  the  cold  stars, 
sinking  agap  to  this  little  ball  of  earth,  and  which  with  sighs  and 
shouts  of  exultation  must  confess  that  in  all  creation  there  is  nothing 
more  beautiful  or  better  than  the  heart  of  man.  This  love  is  Inspi- 
ration, ever  of  a  divine  nature  whether  her  deeds  be  of  folly  or  of 
wisdom.  And  so  it  happened,  that  the  little  boy  by  no  means  lav- 
ished those  tears  in  vain,  which  he  shed  over  the  sorrows  of  the  mad 
knight,  any  more,  indeed,  than  the  youth  did  in  later  years,  when  he 
many  a  night  in  his  narrow  study,  wept  over  the  death  of  the  holiest 
heroes  of  liberty — over  King  Agis  of  Sparta,  over  Caius  and  Tibe- 
rius Gracchus  of  Rome,  over  Jesus  of  Jerusalem,  and  over  Robes- 
pierre and  Saint  Just  of  Paris.  Now  that  I  have  donned  the  toga 
virilis,  and  must  myself  be  a  man,  there  is  an  end  to  weeping,  and 
the  business  in  hand  is  to  act  like  a  man,  after  the  manner  of  great 
predecessors,  and  if  God  so  wills  to  be  wept  in  turn  in  future 
years  by  boys  and  youths.  Yes — these  are  the  ones  on  whom  we 
may  count  in  this  cold  age ;  for  they  will  be  inspired  by  the  gloomy 
breath  which  is  wafted  to  them  from  ancient  lore,  and  it  is  thus  that 
they  appreciate  the  hearts  of  flame  of  the  present  age.  Youth  is 
unselfish  in  thought  and  in  feeling,  and,  therefore,  thinks  and  feels 
the  truth  most  deeply,  and  is  not  backward  when  a  bold  participa- 
tion in  faith  or  deed  is  called  for.  Older  people  are  selfish  and 
small-souled  ;  they  think  more  of  the  interest  of  their  money  than  of 
the  interest  of  mankind  ;  they  let  their  little  boat  swim  calmly  along 


—   407  — 

in  the  gutter  of  life,  troubling  themselves  but  little  as  to  the  sailor 
who  on  the  high  seas  fights  the  billows,  or  they  creep  with  sticky 
obstinacy  to  the  summit  of  a  mayoralty,  or  to  the  presidency  of  a  club, 
and  shrug  their  shoulders  at  the  images  of  heroes  which  the  storm 
cast  down  from  the  pillars  of  renown,  telling,  perhaps,  meanwhile,  how 
they  too,  when  young,  also  ran  their  heads  against  the  wall,  but  that 
they  afterwards  made  friends  with  the  wall  because  the  wall  was  the 
Absolute,  that  which  was  appointed  so  to  be,  the  existing  in  aud  for 
itself,  that  which  because  it  is,  is  also  reasonable,  and  that,  therefore, 
he  is  unreasonable  who  will  not  endure  a  sublimely  reasonable  unde- 
niably existing,  firmly  grounded  Absolutism.  Alas  !  these  rejectors 
and  challengers,  who  philosophise  us  into  a  mild  servitude,  are  always 
more  worthy  of  regard  than  the  rejected,  who,  in  the  defence  of 
despotism,  never  take  stand  on  the  reasonable  ground  of  reason,  but 
strong  in  their  familiarity  with  history,  defend  it  as  a  right  of 
prescription  and  custom  with  which  men  have  gradually  grown  fami- 
liar in  the  course  of  time,  and  which  is  now  legally  and  equitably 
impregnable. 

Perhaps,  you  are  in  the  right,  and  I  am  only  a  Don  Quixote,  and 
the  reading  of  all  manner  of  strange  books  has  turned  my  'üead  as 
the  Knight  of  La  Mancha's  was  turned,  and  Jean  Jacqüeb  Üous- 
seau  was  my  Amadis  de  Gaul,  Mirabeau  was  my  Roldan  or  Agra- 
manto,  and  I  have  studied  too  deeply  in  the  heroic  deeds  of  the 
French  Paladins,  and  of  the  Round  Table  of  the  National  Conven- 
tion. It  is  true  that  my  madness  and  the  fixed  ideas  which  I  have 
gathered  from  those  books  are  of  a  diametrically  different  descrip- 
tion from  the  monomania  and  madness  of  the  Manchan.  He  was 
desirous  of  restoring  decaying  chivalry  to  its  pristine  splendor,  while 
I,  on  the  contrary,  would  utterly  destroy  all  that  there  is  as  yet 
remaining  from  those  days ;  and  we,  consequently  work  with  views 
at  utter  variance.  My  colleague  regarded  wind-mills  as  giants — I, 
however,  in  the  braggart  giants  of  the  day  see  only  noisy  wind-mills ; 
he  thought  that  leathern  wine-sacks  were  mighty  magicians,  while  I, 
in  our  cotemporary  enchanters,  see  nothing  but  leather-headed  wine- 
sacks  ;  he  took  beggarly  pot-houses  for  castles,  ass-drivers  tor  cava- 
liers, low  prostitutes  for  court-ladies — while  I  take  our  castles  for 
mere  inns  for  blackguards,  our  knights  for  ass-drivers,  our  court- 
ladies  for  common  whores,  and  as  he  mistook  a  puppet-show  for  the 
deeds  of  a  state,  so  do  1  regard  our  state  deeds  as  mere  puppet- 
comedies  ;  yet  just  as  bravely  as  the  bold  Knight  of  La  Mancha  do 
I  let  drive  into  the  wooden  trash.    Ah !  such  a  heroic  deed  often 


—   408  — 


costs  me  as  much  as  it  did  him,  and  I  must  like  him  often  suffer 
much  for  the  honor  of  my  lady.  If  I  would  only  be  false  to  her  from 
fear  or  base  avarice,  I  might  live  comfortably  in  this  absolute  exist- 
ing reasonable  world,  and  I  could  lead  some  lovely  Maritornes  to 
the  altar,  and  be  blessed  by  sleek  magicians  and  banquet  with  noble 
ass-drivers,  and  beget  harmless  novels  and  the  like  base  little  slaves  ! 
Instead  of  that,  adorned  with  the  three  colors  of  my  lady,  I  must 
constantly  be  taking  my  place  on  the  combatting  ground,  and  dash 
onward  through  fearful  toil  and  tumult  —  and  I  fight  my  way 
through  no  victory  which  does  not  also  cost  me  some  heart's  blood 
By  day  and  night  I  am  in  extremity,  for  those  enemies  are  so  treach- 
erous, that  many  whom  I  long  ago  struck  down  to  death,  still  give 
themselves  the  guise  of  living  forms,  and  changing  into  every  shape, 
weary  and  disgust  me  by  day  and  by  night.  How  many  sufferings 
have  I  endured  through  these  wretched  ghosts !  Where  love 
bloomed  for  me,  they  stole  in,  the  false  stealthy  spectres,  and  broke 
even  the  most  innocent  buds.  Everywhere,  and  most  unexpectedly, 
I  found  on  the  ground  their  silvery  trace  of  slime,  and  unless  I 
beware  I  may  slip  on  it  to  my  destruction  in  the  house  of  the  nearest 
and  dearest  love.  You  may  laugh,  and  regard  such  anxious  feeling 
as  to  idle  phantoms  as  the  delusions  of  a  Don  Quixote.  But  ima- 
gined woes  pain  none  the  less,  and  if  one  believes  that  he  has  drunk 
hemlock,  he  may  waste  away,  and  at  least,  certainly  will  not  fatten 
on  the  thought.  And  it  is  a  slander  to  say,  that  I  have  grown  fat 
on  it,  at  least,  I  have  as  yet  gained  no  fat  sinecure,  though  I  have 
the  talent  which  would  qualify  me  for  one.  As  for  fat,  my 
fatality  drives  every  trace  of  it  from  me.*  I  fancy  that  every  means 
has  been  taken  to  keep  me  lean  ;  when  I  hungered  they  fed  me  with 
snakes ;  when  I  thirsted  they  gave  me  wormwood  to  drink,  and  they 
poured  hell  into  my  heart  till  I  wept  poison  and  sighed  fire.  Yes — 
they  stole  by  night  into  my  very  dreams — and  there  I  see  horrible 
spectres,  the  noble  lackey  faces  with  gnashing  teeth,  the  threatening 
banker  noses,  the  deadly  eyes  glaring  from  cowls,  the  white  ruffied 
hands  with  gleaming  knives. 

Even  the  old  lady  who  lives  next  to  me,  my  neighbor  through  the 
wall,  thinks  that  I  am  insane,  and  declares  that  I  talk  the  maddest 
stuff  in  my  sleep,  and  that  last  night  she  distinctly  heard  me  call  out 
that,  "  Dulcinea  is  the  fairest  woman  in  the  world,  and  I  am  the 
most  unfortunate  Knight  on  earth,  but  it  is  not  fit  that  my  weakness 
should  give  the  lie  to  this  truth — so  on  with  thy  lance,  Knight!" 

*  Auch  is  von  dem  Fett  der  Vetterschaft  nichts  an  mir  zu  verspüren. 


—    409  — 


POSTSCRIPT. 


(NOVEMBER,  1830.) 


I  do  not  know  what  the  peculiar  feeling  of  reverence  was,  which  im- 
pelled me  to  modify  even  the  most  trivial  of  several  expressions  in  the 
foregoing  pages,  and  which  on  a  subsequent  reading  appeared  to  be 
rather  too  harsh.  The  manuscript  had  already  become  as  yellow  as 
a  corpse,  and  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  mutilate  it.  Every- 
thing which  has  been  written  for  years,  seems  to  have  an  inherent, 
right  to  remain  uninjured — even  these  pages,  which  to  a  certain  degree 
belong  to  a  dark  past.  For  they  were  written  nearly  a  year  before 
the  third  Hegira  of  the  Bourbons,  at  a  time  which  was  harsher 
than  the  harshest  phrase,  a  time  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  battle  for 
liberty  might  yet  be  delayed  for  a  century.  It  was  to  say  the  least, 
a  matter  for  critical  and  nice  reflection,  when  we  saw  our  knightly 
nobility  looking  so  confident — how  they  had  their  faded  coats  of 
arms  freshly  painted,  how  they  tourneyed  with  shield  and  spear  at 
Munich  and  Potsdam,  and  how  they  sat  so  proudly  on  their  high 
steeds  as  though  they  would  ride  to  Quedlinburg  to  have  themselvs 
retouched  by  Gottfried  Basse. 

Still  more  insufferable  were  the  triumphant  and  treacherous  eyes 
of  our  priests,  who  hid  their  long  ears  so  slyly  under  their  cowls, 
that  we  continually  anticipated  the  most  deadly  wiles.  No  one  could 
know  beforehand  that  the  noble  knights  would  shoot  so  wretchedly 
wide  of  the  mark,  and  generally  from  an  ambuscade,  or  at  least 
in  galloping  away  with  averted  heads,  like  flying  Bashkirs.  Just  as 
little  could  one  know  beforehand  that  the  serpent-like  sagacity  of  our 
priests  could  be  so  brought  to  shame — ah!  it  is  enough  to  awaken  one's 
pity  to  see  how  stupidly  they  use  their  best  poison,  and  how  in  their 
rage  they  throw  the  arsenic  in  great  lumps  at  our  heads,  instead  of 
sprinkling  it  by  the  ounce  and  amiably  in  our  soup ;  how  they  rum- 
mage among  the  long  forgotten  children's  clothes  of  their  enemies 
to  dis(  over  some  obsolete  baby  wrappings  from  which  to  nose  out 
trouble,  how  they  even  rake  the  fathers  of  their  enemies  out  of  their 
graves  to  see  if  they  perhaps  were  circumcised — oh  the  fools  !  who 
imagine  that  they  have  discovered  that  the  lion  belongs  to  the  feline 

35 


—   410  — 


race,  and  with  this  natural  historical  discovery  go  hissing  about  so 
long,  that  finally  the  great  cat  exemplifies  the  ex  ungue  Jeonem  on  their 
own  flesh  !  Oh !  the  obscure  wights  upon  whom  no  light  shines  until 
they  hang  in  person  on  the  lamp  post !  With  the  entrails  of  an  ass 
would  I  string  my  lyre  that  I  might  worthily  sing  them — the  shorn 
blockheads ! 

A  mighty  joy  seizes  on  me !  While  I  sit  and  write,  music  sounds 
ander  my  window,  and  in  the  elegiac  grimness  of  the  long  drawn  out 
melody,  I  recognise  that  Marseilles  hymn  with  which  the  beautiful 
Barbaroux  and  his  companions  greeted  the  city  of  Paris,  that  rans 
des  vetches  of  liberty,  whose  tones  gave  the  Swiss  in  theTuileries  the 
homesickness,  that  triumphant  death  song  of  the  Gironde — the  old 
sweet  cradle  song. 

What  a  song !  It  shudders  through  me  with  fire  and  joy,  and 
lights  up  in  me  the  glowing  stars  of  inspiration,  and  the  rockets  of 
scorn  and  mockery.  Yes,  they  shall  not  be  wanting  in  the  great- 
fireworks  of  the  age.  Ringing  fire-streams  of  song  shall  pour  forth 
in  bold  cascades  from  the  summit  of  Freedom's  revels ;  as  the  Ganges 
leaps  from  Himalaya!  And  thou  dear  Satyra,  daughter  of  the  just 
Themis  and  of  goat-footed  Pan,  lend  me  thine  aid,  for  thou  art  by 
the  mother's  side  of  Titanic  blood,  and  hatest  like  me  the  enemies  of 
thy  kin,  the  weak  usurpers  of  Olympus.  Lend  me  the  sword  of  thy 
mother  that  I  may  execute  the  hated  brood,  and  give  me  the  pipes 
of  thy  father  that  I  therewith,  may  pipe  them  to  death. 

Already  they  hear  the  deathly  piping  and  panic  fears  seize  them, 
and  they  again  take  to  flight  in  bestial  forms  as  of  old,  when  we  piled 
Pelion  upon  Ossa. 

Aus  armes  ci  toy  ens ! 

They  did  great  injustice  to  us  poor  Titans,  when  they  blamed  the 
dark  ferocity  with  which  we  raged  upward  in  that  storming  of 
heaven — ah  !  down  there  in  Tartarus  it  was  terrible  and  dark  ;  we 
heard  there,  only  the  howls  of  Cerberus  and  the  rattling  of  chains, 
and  it  is  pardonable  if  we  appear  somewhat  savage,  in  comparison 
with  those  divinities,  comme  il  faut,  who  so  refined  and  elegant  in 
manners,  enjoyed  in  the  cheerful  saloons  of  Olympus,  so  much  ex- 
quisite nectar  and  so  many  sweet  concerts  given  by  the  Muses. 

I  can  writejio  more,  for  the  music  under  my  window  intoxicates 
my  head,  and  still  more  forcibly  am  I  moved  by  the  refrain. 


Aux  armes  citoyensl 


ENGLISH  FRAGMENTS. 


1  828. 


*  Happy  Albion  !  merry  Old  England  !  why  did  I  leave  thee?— To  fly 
from  the  society  of  gentlemen,  and  to  be  among  a  pack  of  blackguards, 
the  only  one  who  lives  and  acts  with  consciousness  ?" 

"  Honorable  People,"  by  W.  Ai.i-.si.q. 

The  "  English  Fragments"  were  partly  written  two  years  ago  for 
the  "  Universal  Political  Annals,"  which  I  at  that  time  published 
with  Lindner,  to  supply  a  want  of  the  time,  and  believing  them  to 
be  appropriate,  I  have  added  them  as  a  completion  of  the  u  Pictures 
of  Travel." 

I  trust  that  the  amiable  reader  will  not  misapprehend  my  object 
in  giving  these  English  Fragments.  Perhaps,  I  may,  at  a  proper 
time,  supply  further  contributions  of  {he  same  nature.  Our  litera- 
ture is  by  no  means  too  richly  provided  with  them.  Though  England 
has  been  frequently  described  by  our  novelists,  Willibald  Alexis 
is  the  only  one  who  has  set  forth  her  local  peculiarities  and  costumes 
with  true  outline  and  color.  I  believe  that  he  was  never  in  the 
country,  and  knows  its  physiognomy  only  by  that  strange  intuition 
which  renders  a  personal  examination  of  the  reality  needless  to  a 
poet.  In  like  manner,  I  myself,  wrote  eleven  years  ago,  "  William 
Ratcliff,"  to  which  I  here  the  more  emphatically  refer,  since  it  not 
only  contains  an  accurate  picture  of  England,  but  also  the  germ  of 
my  later  observations  of  the  country  which  I  had  not  then  seen. 
The  piece  may  be  found  in  the 

"Tragedies,  with  a  Lyrical  Intermezzo,  by  Henry  Heine. 
Berlin,  1823,  published  by  F.  Duemmler." 

As  for  books  of  travel  in  England,  I  am  continent,  that  with  the 
exception  of  those  of  Archenholtz  and  Gcede,  thei^  are  none  which 
set  forth  matters  as  they  really  are  there,  which  can  be  compared 
to  a  work  published  this  year  by  Frankh,  in  Munich.    I  refer  to 
"  Letters  of  a  Dead  Man.    A  Fragmentary  Diary,  k,>pt  in  Eng- 
land, Wales,  Ireland  and  France,  in  the  years  1828  and  1829." 

It  is  moreover  in  many  other  respects  an  admirable  book,  and  fully 
deserves  the  praise  which  Goethe  and  Varnhagen  Von  Ense  have 
lavished  on  it  in  the  Berlin  Annuals  of  Scientific  Criticism. 

Henry  Heine. 

Hamburg,  Nov.  15,  1830. 

(411) 


—    412  — 
1« 

DIALOGUE  ON  THE  THAMES. 

 The  sallow  man  stood  near  me  on  the  deck,  as  I  gazed 

on  the  green  shores  of  the  Thames,  while  in  every  corner  of  my  soul 
the  nightingales  awoke  to  life.  ''Land  of  Freedom!"  I  cried, — "I 
greet  thee ! — Hail  to  thee,  Freedom,  young  sun  of  the  renewed 
world  !  Those  older  suns.  Love  and  Faith  are  withered  and  cold, 
and  can  no  longer  light  nor  warm  us.  The  ancient  myrtle  woods 
which  were  once  all  too  full,  are  now  deserted,  and  only  timid  turtle- 
doves nestle  amid  the  soft  thickets.  The  old  cathedrals  once  piled 
in  towering  height  by  an  arrogantly  pious  race,  which  fain  would 
force  its  faith  into  heaven  are  brittle,  and  their  gods  have  ceased  to 
believe  in  themselves.  Those  divinities  are  worn  out,  and  our  age 
lacks  the  imagination  to  shape  new.  Every  power  of  the  human 
breast  now  tends  to  a  love  of  Liberty,  and  Liberty  is,  perhaps,  the 
religion  of  the  modern  age.  And  it  is  a  religion  not  preached  to  the 
rich,  but  to  the  poor,  and  it  has  in  like  manner  its  Evangelists,  its 
martyrs,  and  its  Iscariots  !" 

"Young  enthusiast,"  said  the  sallow  man,  "  you  will  not  find  what 
you  seek.  You  may  be  in  the  right  in  believing  that  Liberty  is  a 
new  religion  which  will  spread  itself  over  all  the  woild.  But  at 
every  race  of  old,  when  it  received  Christianity  did  so  according  to 
its  requirements  and  its  peculiar  character,  so,  at  present,  every 
country  adopts  from  the  new  religion  of  liberty  only  that  which  is 
in  accordance  with  its  local  needs  and  national  character. 

"  The  English  are  a  domestic  race,  living  a  limited,  peaceable 
family  life,  and  the  Englishman  seeks  in  the  circle  of  those  con- 
nected with  and  pertaining  to  him,  that  easy  state  of  mind  which 
is  denied  to  him  through  his  innate  social  incapacity.  The  English- 
man is,  therefore,  contented  with  that  liberty  which  secures  his  most 
personal  rights  and  guards  his  body,  his  property,  and  his  conjugal 
relations,  his  religion,  and  even  his  whims,  in  the  most  unconditional 
manner.  No  one  is  freer  in  his  home  than  an  Englishman,  and  to 
use  a  celebrated  expression  he  is  king  and  bishop  between  his  four 
stakes,  and  there  is  much  truth  in  the  common  saying,  that  1  my 
house  is  my  castle.' 

"  If  the  Englishman  has  the  greatest  need  of  personal  freedom,  the 
Frenchman,  in  case  of  need,  can  dispense  with  it,  if  we  only  grant 
him  that  portion  of  universal  liberty  known  as  equality.    The  French 


—   413  — 

are  not  a  domestic  but  a  social  race,  they  are  no  friends  to  a  silent 
Utc-a  te'e,  which  they  call  une  conversation  Anglaise,  they  i  un  gossip- 
ing about  from  the  cafe*  to  the  casino,  and  from  the  casino  to  the 
salons,  their  light  champagne-blood  and  in-born  talent  for  company, 
drives  them  to  social  life,  whose  first  and  last  principle,  yes, 
whose  very  soul  is  equality.  The  development  of  the  social  princi- 
ple in  France  necessarily  involved  that  of  equality,  and  if  the  ground 
of  the  Revolution  should  be  sought  in  the  budget ;  it  is  none  the  less 
true  that  its  language  and  tone  were  drawn  from  those  wits  of  low 
degree  who  lived  in  the  salons  of  Paris,  apparently  on  a  footing  of 
equality  with  the  high  noblesse,  and  who  were  now  and  then 
reminded,  it  may  have  been,  by  a  hardly  perceptible,  yet  not  on  that 
account  less  aggravating,  feudal  smile,  of  the  great  and  ignominious  ine- 
quality which  lay  between  them.  And  when  the  canaille  roturUre  took 
the  liberty  of  beheading  that  high  noblesse,  it  was  done  less  to  inherit 
their  property  than  their  ancestry,  and  to  introduce  a  noble  equality 
in  place  of  a  vulgar  inequality.  And  we  are  the  better  authorized  to 
believe  that  this  striving  for  equality  was  the  main  principle  of  the 
revolution,  since  the  French  speedily  found  themselves  so  happy  and 
contented  under  the  dominion  of  their  great  Emperor,  who  fully 
appreciating  that  they  were  not  yet  of  age,  kept  all  their  f  reedom 
within  the  limits  of  his  powerful  guardianship,  permitting  them  only 
the  pleasure  of  a  perfect  and  admirable  equality. 

Far  more  patient  than  the  Frenchman  the  Englishman,  easily  bears 
the  glances  of  a  privileged  aristocracy,  consoling  himself  with  the  re- 
flection, that  he  has  a  right  by  which  it  is  rendered  impossible  to  the 
others  to  disturb  his  personal  comfort  or  his  daily  requirements. 
Nor  does  the  aristocracy  here  make  a  show  of  its  privileges  as  on 
the  Continent.  In  the  streets  and  in  places  of  public  resort  in 
London,  colored  ribbons  are  only  seen  on  women's  bonnets,  and  gold 
and  silver  signs  of  distinction,  on  the  dresses  of  lackeys.  Even  that 
beautiful  colored  livery  which  indicates  with  us  military  rank,  is  in 
England  anything  but  a  sign  of  honor,  and  as  an  actor  after  a  play 
hastens  to  wash  off  the  rouge,  so  an  English  officer  hastens  when  the 
hours  of  active  duty  are  over,  to  strip  off  his  red  coat  and  again 
appear  like  a  gentleman,  in  the  plain  garb  of  a  gentleman.  Only  at 
the  theatre  of  St.  James  are  those  decorations  and  costumes,  which 
were  raked  from  the  off-scourings  of  the  middle  ages,  of  any  avail. 
There  we  may  see  the  ribbons  of  orders  of  nobility,  there  the  stars 
glitter,  silk  knee-breeches  and  satin  trains  rustle,  golden  spurs  and 
old  fashioned  French  styles  of  expression  clatter,  there  the  knight 

35* 


—      414:  — 


struts  and  the  lady  spreads  herself.  But  what  does  a  free  English- 
man cure  lor  the  court  comedy  of  St.  James !  so  long  as  it  does 
not  trouble  him,  and  so  long  as  no  one  interferes  when  he  plays 
comedy  in  like  manner  in  his  own  house,  making  his  lackeys  kneel 
before  him,  or  plays  with  the  garter  of  a  pretty  cook-maid  ? — "  horn 
soit  qui  mal  y  pensei" 

"  As  for  the  Germans  they  need  neither  freedom  nor  equality.  They 
are  a  speculative  race,  idealogists,  prophets  aud  after  thinkers, 
dreamers  who  only  live  in  the  past  and  in  the  future,  and  who  have 
no  present.  Englishmen  and  Frenchmen  have  a  present — with  them, 
every  day  has  its  field  of  action,  its  opposing  element,  its  history. 
The  German  has  nothing  for  which  to  battle,  and  when  he  began  to 
realize  that  there  might  be  things  worth  striving  for,  his  philosophi- 
sing wiseacres  taught  him  to  doubt  the  existence  of  such  things.  It 
cannot  be  denied  that  the  Germans  love  liberty.  But  it  is  in  a 
different  manner  from  other  people.  The  Englishman  loves  liberty 
as  his  lawful  wife,  and  if  he  does  not  treat  her  with  remarkable 
tenderness,  he  is  still  ready  in  case  of  need  to  defend  her  like  a  man, 
and  woe  to  the  red  coated  rascal  who  forces  his  way  to  her  bed- 
room— let  him  do  so  as  a  gallant  or  as  a  catch  poll.  The  French- 
man loves  liberty  as  his  bride.  He  burns  for  her,  he  is  a  flame,  he 
casts  himself  at  her  feet  with  the  most  extravagant  protestations, 
he  will  fight  for  her  to  the  death,  he  commits  for  her  sake  a  thousand 
follies.  The  German  loves  liberty  as  though  she  were  his  old 
grandmother." 

Men  are  strange  beings !  We  grumble  in  our  fatherland,  every 
stupid  thing,  every  contrary  trifle  vexes  us  there ;  like  boys  we 
are  always  long  to  rush  forth  into  the  wide  world,  and  when  we 
finally  find  ourselves  out  in  the  wide  world,  we  find  it  a  world  too  wide, 
and  often  yearn  in  secret  for  the  narrow  stupidities  and  contrarieties 
of  home  ;  yes,  we  would  fain  be  again  in  the  old  chamber,  sitting 
behind  the  familiar  stove,  making  for  ourselves  as  it  were  a  "cubby 
house"  near  it,  aud  nestling  there,  read  the  "  German  General  Adver- 
tiser." So  it  was  with  me  in  my  journey  to  England.  Scarcely 
had  I  lost  sight  of  the  German  shore  ere  there  awoke  in  me  a  curious 
after-love  for  the  German  night-caps  and  forest-like  wigs  which  I  had 
just  left  in  discontent,  and  when  the  fatherland  faded  from  my  eyes 
I  found  it  again  in  my  heart. 

And  therefore  it  may  be  that  my  voice  quivered  in  a  somewhat 
lower  key  as  I  replied  to  the  sallow  man:  "Dear  sir — do  not  scold 
the  Germans  !"  If  they  are  dreamers,  still  many  of  them  have  dreamed 


—   415  — 

such  beautiful  •  dreams,  that  I  would  hardly  incline  to  change  them 
for  the  waking  realities  of  our  neighbors.  Since  we  all  sleep  and 
dream,  we  can  perhaps  dispense  with  freedom,  for  our  tyrants  also 
sleep,  and  only  dream  their  tyranny.  We  only  awoke  once ;  when 
the  Catholic  Romans  robbed  us  of  our  dream  freedom :  then  we 
acted  and  conquered  and  laid  us  down  again  and  dreamed.  0,  sir ! 
do  not  mock  our  dreamers,  for  now  and  theu  they  speak,  like  som- 
nambulists, wondrous  things  in  sleep,  and  their  words  become  the 
seeds  of  freedom.  No  one  can  foresee  the  turn  which  things  may 
take.  The  splenetic  Briton,  weary  of  his  wife,  may  put  a  halter 
round  her  neck  and  sell  her  in  Smithfield.  The  flattering  French- 
man may  perhaps  be  untrue  to  his  beloved  bride  and  abandon^her, 
and  singing,  dance  after  the  court  dames  (courlisanes)  of  his  royal 
palace  (palais  royal).  But  the  German  will  never  turn  his  old  grand- 
mother quite  out  of  doors,  he  will  always  find  a  place  for  her  by  his 
fire  side,  where  she  can  tell  his  listening  children,  her  legends. 
Should  freedom  ever — which  God  forbid — vanish  from  the  entire 
world,  a  German  dreamer  would  discover  her  again  in  his  dreams." 

While  the  steamboat,  and  with  it  our  conversation,  swam  thus  along 
the  stream,  the  sun  had  set  and  his  last  rays  lit  up  the  hospital  at 
Greenwich,  an  imposing  palace-like  building  which  in  reality  consists 
of  two  wings,  the  space  between  which  is  empty,  and  a  green  hill 
crowned  with  a  pretty  little  tower,  from  which  one  can  behold  those 
passing  by.  On  the  water,  the  throng  of  vessels  became  denser  and 
denser,  and  I  wondered  at  the  adroitness  with  which  the  larger 
avoided  contact.  While  passing  many  a  sober  and  friendly  face 
nodded  greetings — faces  whom  we  had  never  seen  before,  and  were 
never  to  see  again.  We  sometimes  came  so  near,  that  it  was  possible 
to  shake  hands  in  joint  welcome  and  adieu.  One's  heart  swells  at 
the  sight  of  so  many  swelling  sails,  and  we  feel  strangely  moved 
when  the  confused  hum  and  far  off  dancing-music,  and  the  deep 
voices  of  sailors  resound  from  the  shore.  But  the  outlines  of  all 
things  vanished  little  by  little  behind  the  white  veil  of  the  evening 
mist,  and  there  only  remained  visible  a  forest  of  masts,  rising  long 
and  bare  above  it. 

The  sallow  man  still  stood  near  me  and  gazed  reflectively  on 
high,  as  though  he  sought  for  the  pale  stars  in  the  cloudy  heaven. 
And  still  gazing  on  high,  he  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and 
said  in  a  tone  as  though  secret  thoughts  involuntarily  became 
words — "Freedom  and  equality!  they  are  not  to  be  found  on  earth 
below  nor  in  heaven  above.    The  stars  on  high  are  not  alike,  for  one 


—   416  — 

is  greater  and  brighter  than  the  other ;  none  of  them  wander  free,  all 
obey  a  prescribed  and  iron-like  law — there  is  slavery  in  heaven  as  on 
earth.  I" 

"There  is  the  Tower!"  suddenly  cried  one  of  our  travelling  com- 
panions, as  he  pointed  to  a  high  building  which  rose  like  a  spectral 
gloomy  dream  above  the  cloud-covered  London. 


2. 

LONDON. 

I  have  seen  the  greatest  wonder  which  the  world  can  show  to  the 
astonished  spirit,  I  have  seen  it  and  am  still  astonished — and  still 
there  remains  fixed  in  my  memory  the  stone  forest  of  houses,  and 
amid  them  the  rushing  stream  of  faces  of  living  men  with  all  their 
motley  passions,  all  their  terrible  impulses  of  love,  of  hunger  and  of 
hatred — 1  mean  London. 

Send  a  philosopher  to  London  but  for  your  life,  no  poet!  Send  a 
philosopher  there,  and  stand  him  at  a  corner  of  Cheapside,  where  he 
will  learn  more  than  from  all  the  books  of  the  last  Leipzig  fair;  and 
as  the  billows  of  human  life  roar  around  him,  so  will  a  sea  of  new 
thoughts  rise  before  him,  and  the  Eternal  Spirit  which  moves  upon 
the  face  of  the  waters  will  breathe  upon  him ;  the  most  hidden 
secrets  of  social  harmony  will  be  suddenly  revealed  to  him,  he  will 
hear  the  pulse  of  the  world  beat  audibly,  and  see  it  visibly— for,  if 
London  is  the  right  hand  of  the  world — its  active  mighty  right  hand 
— then  we  may  regard  that  route  which  leads  from  the  Exchange  to 
Downing  Street,  as  the  world's  pyloric  artery. 

But  never  send  a  poet  to  London  !  This  downright  earnestness  of 
all  things,  this  colossal  uniformity,  this  machine-like  movement,  this 
troubled  spirit  in  pleasure  itself,  this  exaggerated  London,  smothers 
the  imagination  and  rends  the  heart.  And  should  you  ever  send  a 
German  poet  thither— a  dreamer,  who  stares  at  everything,  even  a 
ragged  beggar-woman,  or  the  shining  wares  of  a  goldsmith's  shop — 
why,  then,  at  least,  he  will  find  things  going  right  badly  with  him, 
and  he  will  be  hustled  about  on  every  side,  or,  perhaps,  be  knocked 
over  with  a  mild  "  God  damn!"*    God  damn  .'—damn  the  knocking 

*  The  English  or  American  reader  has  doubtless  heard  the  expression,  "  God  damn 
it!"  and  also  "Damnation  I"  but  I  am  not  aware  that  the  interjection  quoted  by  Heine 
is  used  in  our  language.    Popular  opinion  in  A.nerica  ascribes  it  exclusively  to  Geilnaus, 


—   417  — 


about  and  pushing !  I  see  at  a  glance  that  these  people  have  enough 
to  do.  They  live  on  a  grand  scale,  and  though  food  and  clothes  are 
dearer  with  them  than  with  us,  they  must  still  be  better  fed  and 
clothed  than  we  are — as  gentility  requires.  Moreover,  they  have  enor- 
mous debts,  yet  occasionally  in  a  vain-glorious,  mood  they  make  ducks 
and  drakes  of  their  guineas,  pay  other  nations  to  box  about  for  their 
pleasure,  give  their  kings  a  handsome  douceur  into  the  bargain — and, 
therefore,  John  Bull  must  work  to  get  the  money  for  such  expendi- 
ture. By  day  and  by  night  he  must  tax  his  brain  to  discover  new 
machines,  and  he  sits  and  reckons  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  and  runs 
and  rushes  without  much  looking  around,  from  the  Docks  to  the 
Exchange,  and  from  the  Exchange  to  the  Strand,  and,  therefore,  it 
is  quite  pardonable,  if  he,  when  a  poor  German  poet,  gazing  into  a 
print-shop  window,  stands  bolt  in  his  way  on  the  corner  of  Cheapside, 
should  knock  the  latter  sideways  with  a  rather  rough  f>  God  damn!" 

But  the  picture  at  which  I  was  gazing  as  I  stood  at  Cheapside 
corner,  was  that  of  the  French  crossing  the  Beresina. 

And  when  I,  jolted  out  of  my  gazing,  looked  again  on  the  raging 
street,  where  a  parti-colored  coil  of  men,  women  and  children,  horses, 
stage-coaches,  and  with  them  a  funeral,  whirled  groaning  and  creak- 
ing along,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  all  London  were  such  a 
Beresina  Bridge  where  every  one  presses  on  in  mad  haste  to  save  his 
scrap  of  life,  where  the  daring  rider  stamps  down  the  poor  pedes- 
trian, where  every  one  who  falls  is  lost  forever ;  where  the  best 
friends  rush,  without  feeling,  over  each  other's  corpses,  and  where 
thousands  in  the  weakness  of  death,  and  bleeding,  grasp  in  vain  at 
the  planks  of  the  bridge,  and  are  shot  down  into  the  icy  grave  of  death. 

How  much  more  pleasant  and  homelike  it  is  in  our  dear  Germany ! 
With  what  dreaming  comfort,  in  what  Sabbath-like  repose  all  glides 
along  here!  Calmly  the  sentinels  are  changed,  uniforms  and  houses 
shine  in  the  quiet  sunshine,  swallows  flit  over  the  flag-stones,  fat 
court-councillor-esses  smile  from  the  windows,  while  along  the  echo- 
ing streets  there  is  room  enough  for  the  dogs  to  sniff  at  each  other, 
and  for  men  to  stand  at  ease  and  chat  about  the  theatre,  and  bow 
deeply— oh,  how  deeply ! — when  some  small  aristocratic  scamp  or 
vice  scamp,  with  colored  ribbons  on  his  shabby  coat,  or  some  court- 
marshal*  struts  along,  as  if  in  judgment,  graciously  returning  salu- 
tations ! 

who  have  hut  a  limited  familiarity  with  English.   Many  eminent  French  writers  also 
seem  to  labor  under  an  erroneous  impression,  that  a  mysterious  expletive  written  by 
them  '•  Göddern  I"  or  <:  Qodam  !"  is  used  in  English.—  [Note  by  Translator.] 
*  Hofmarschalkchen 


—   418  — 


I  had  made  up  my  mind  in  advance,  not  to  be  astonished  at  that  im- 
mensity of  London  of  which  I  had  heard  so  much.  But  I  had  as  little 
success  as  the  poor  school-boy,  who  determined  beforehand  not  to  feel 
the  whipping  which  he  was  to  receive.  The  facts  of  the  case  were,  that 
he  expected  to  get  the  usual  blows  with  the  usual  stick  in  the  usual 
way  on  the  back,  whereas  he  received  a  most  unusually  severe  lick- 
ing on  an  unusual  place  with  a  cutting  switch.  I  anticipated  great 
palaces  and  saw  nothing  but  mere  small  houses.  But  their  very 
uniformity  aud  their  limitless  extent  impress  the  soul  wonderfully. 

These  houses  of  brick,  owing  to  the  damp  atmosphere  and  coal 
smoke,  are  all  of  an  uniform  color,  that  is  to  say  of  a  brown  olive 
green,  and  are  all  of  the  same  style  of  building,  generally  two  or  three 
windows  wide,  three  stories  high  and  finished  above  with  small  red 
tiles,  which  remind  one  of  newly  extracted  bleeding  teeth,  while  the 
broad  and  accurately  squared  streets  which  these  houses  form,  seem 
to  be  bordered  by  endlessly  long  barracks.  This  has  its  reason  in 
the  fact  that  every  English  family,  though  it  consist  of  only  two  per- 
sons, must  still  have  a  house  to  itself  for  its  own  castle,  and  rich 
speculators  to  meet  the  demand,  build  wholesale,  entire  streets  of 
these  dwellings  which  they  retail  singly.  In  the  principal  streets  of 
the  city  where  the  business  of  London  is  most  at  home,  where  old 
fashioned  buildings  are  mingled  with  the  new,  and  where  the  fronts 
of  the  houses  are  covered  with  signs,  yards  in  length,  generally 
gilt,  and  in  relief,  this  characteristic  uniformity  is  less  striking — 
the  less  so  indeed  because  the  eye  of  the  stranger  is  incessantly 
caught  by  the  new  and  brilliant  wares  exposed  for  sale  in  the  win- 
dows. And  these  articles  do  not  merely  produce  an  effect,  because 
the  Englishman  completes  so  perfectly  everything  which  he  manu- 
factures, and  because  every  article  of  luxury,  every  astral  lamp  and 
every  boot,  every  tea  kettle  and  every  woman's  dress,  shines  out  so 
invitingly  and  so  "finished"  There  is  also  a  peculiar  charm  in  the 
art  of  arrangement,  in  the  contrast  of  colors,  and  in  the  variety  of 
the  English  shops ;  even  the  most  commonplace  necessaries  of  life, 
appear  in  a  startling  magic  light  through  this  artistic  power  of 
setting  forth  everything  to  advantage.  Ordinary  articles  of  food 
attract  us  by  the  new  light  in  which  they  are  placed,  even  uncooked 
fish  lie  so  delightfully  dressed  that  the  rainbow  gleam  of  their  scales 
attracts  us ;  raw  meat  lies,  as  if  painted,  on  neat  and  many-colored 
porcelain  plates,  garlanded  about  with  parsley — yes  everything  seems 
painted,  reminding  us  of  the  highly  polished  yet  modest  pictures  of 
Franz  Miekis.    But  the  human  beings  whom  we  see  are  not  so 


—    419  — 

cheerful  as  in  the  Dutch  paintings  for  they  sell  the  jolliest  wares 
with  the  most  serious  faces,  and  the  cut  and  color  of  their  clothes  is 
as  uniform  as  that  of  their  houses. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  town,  which  they  call  the  "West  End — 
'•H'he  west  end  of  the  town" — and  where  the  more  aristocratic  and  less 
occupied  world  lives,  the  uniformity  spoken  of  is  still  more  domi- 
nant; yet  here  there  are  very  long  and  very  broad  streets  where  all 
the  houses  are  large  as  palaces,  though  anything  but  remarkable  as 
regards  their  exterior,  unless  we  except  the  fact  that  in  these,  -as  in 
all  the  better  class  of  houses  in  London,  the  windows  of  the  first 
etage  (or  second  story)  are  adorned  with  iron  barred  balconies,  and 
also  on  the  rcz  de  chaussie  there  is  a  black  railing  protecting  the 
entrance  to  certain  subterranean  apartments.  In  this  part  of  the 
city  there  are  also  great  ''squares,"  where  rows  of  houses  like  those 
already  described  form  a  quadrangle,  in  whose  centre,  there  is  a 
garden  enclosed  by  an  iron  railing  and  containing  some  statue  or 
other.  In  all  of  these  places  and  streets,  the  eye  is  never  shocked 
by  the  dilapidated  huts  of  misery.  Everywhere  we  are  stared 
down  on  by  wealth  and  respectability,  while  crammed  away  in 
retired  lanes  and  dark  damp  alleys,  poverty  dwells  with  her  rags 
and  her  tears. 

The  stranger  who  wanders  through  the  great  streets  of  London, 
and  does  not  chance  right  into  the  regular  quarters  of  the  multitude, 
sees  little  or  nothing  of  the  fearful  misery  existing  there.  Only  here 
and  there  at  the  mouth  of  some  dark  alley  stands  a  ragged  woman 
with  a  suckling  babe  at  her  weak  breast,  and  begs  with  her  eyes. 
Perhaps  if  those  eyes  are  still  beautiful,  we  glance  into  them  and 
are  shocked  at  the  world  of  wretchedness  visible  within.  The  com- 
mon beggars  are  old  people,  generally  blacks,  who  stand  at  the 
corners  of  the  streets,  cleaning  pathways — a  very  necessary  thing  in 
muddy  London— and  ask  for  "  coppers"  in  reward.  It  is  in  the 
dusky  twilight  that  Poverty  with  her  mates  Yice  and  Crime  glide 
forth  from  their  lairs.  They  shun  daylight  the  more  anxiously  since 
their  wretchdness  there  contrasts  more  cruelly  with  the  pride  of 
wealth  which  glitters  everywhere,  only  Hunger  sometimes  drives 
them  at  noon-day  from  their  dens,  and  then  they  stand  with  silent, 
speaking  eyes,  staring  beseechingly  at  the  rich  merchant  who  hur- 
ries along,  busy  and  jingling  gold,  or  at  the  lazy  lord  who  like  a  sur- 
feited god  rides  by  on  his  high  horse,  casting  now  and  then  an 
aristocratically  indifferent  glance  at  the  mob  below,  as  though  they 
were  swarming  ants,  or  rather  a  mass  of  baser  beings,  whose  joys 


—    420  — 


and  sorrows  have  nothing  in  common  with  his  feelings.  Yes — for 
over  the  vulgar  multitude  which  sticks  fast  to  the  soil,  soar  like 
beings  of  a  higher  nature,  England's  nobility,  to  whom  their  little 
island  is  only  a  temporary  resting  place,  Italy  their  summer  garden, 
Paris  their  social  saloon,  and  the  whole  world  their  inheritance. 
They  sweep  along,  knowing  nothing  of  sorrow  or  suffering,  and  their 
gold  is  a  talisman  which  conjures  into  fulfilment  their  wildest  wish. 

Poor  Poverty!  how  agonizing  must  thy  hunger  be,  where  others 
swell  in  scornful  superfluity!  And  when  some  one  casts  with 
indifferent  hand  a  crust  into  thy  lap,  how  bitter  must  the  tears  be 
wherewith  thou  moistenest  it !  Thou  poisonest  thyself  with  thine 
own  tears.  Well  art  thou  in  the  right  when  thou  alliest  thyself  to 
Vice  and  Crime.  Outlawed  criminals  often  bear  more  humanity  in 
their  hearts  than  those  cool,  reproachless  town  burghers  of  virtue, 
in  whose  white  hearts,  the  power  of  evil  it  is  true  is  quenched — but 
with  it,  too,  the  power  of  good.  I  have  seen  women  on  whose  cheeks 
red  vice  was  painted,  and  in  whose  hearts  dwelt  heavenly  purity.  I 
have  seen  women — I  would  that  I  saw  them  again !  


3. 

THE  ENGLISH. 

Under  the  archways  of  the  London  Exchange,  every  nation  hag 
its  allotted  place,  and  on  high  tablets  we  read  the  names  of 
Russians,  Spaniards,  Swedes,  Germans,  Maltese,  Jews,  Hanseatics, 
Turks,  &c.  Now,  however,  you  would  seek  them  there  in  vain,  for 
the  men  have  been  jostled  away- — where  Spaniards  once  stood  Dutch- 
men now  stand,  the  citizens  of  Hansetowns  have  elbowed  out  the 
Jews,  Russians  are  now  where  Turks  once  were,  Italians  are  on  the 
ground  once  held  by  Frenchmen — even  the  Germans  have  advanced 
a  little. 

As  in  the  London  Exchange,  so  in  the  rest  of  the  world  the  ancient 
tablets  have  remained,  and  men  have  been  moved  away  while  other 
people  appear  in  their  place,  whose  new  heads  agree  very  indifferently 
with  the  old  inscriptions.  The  old  stereotyped  characteristics  of 
races  as  we  find  them  in  learned  compendiums  and  ale-houses,  are 
no  longer  profitable,  and  can  only  lead  us  into  dreary  errors.  As  we 
during  the  last  ten  years  have  observed  a  striking  change  in  the 
character  of  our  western  neighbors  just  so  has  there  been  since  the 


—    421  — 


continent  was  thrown  open,  a  corresponding  metamorphosis  on  the 
other  side  of  the  canal.  Stiff,  taciturn  Englishmen  go  pilgrim-like 
in  hordes  to  France,  there  to  learn  to  speak  and  move  their  limbs, 
and  on  returning,  we  observe  with  amazement  that  their  tongues  are 
loosened,  they  no  longer  have  two  left  hands,  and  are  no  longer 
contented  with  beef-steak  and  plum-puddings.  I  myself  have  seen 
such  an  Englishman,  who  in  Tavistock  Tavern  asked  for  some  sugar 
with  his  cauliflowers — a  heresy  against  the  stern  laws  of  the  English 
cuisine,  which  nearly  caused  the  waiter  to  fall  flat  on  his  back — for, 
certainly,  since  the  days  of  the  Roman  Invasion,  cauliflower  was 
never  cooked  otherwise  than  by  simply  boiling  in  water,  nor  was  it 
ever  eaten  with  sweet  seasoning.  It  was  the  self-same  Englishman, 
who,  although  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  sat  down  opposite  to  me 
and  began  to  converse  so  genially  in  French,  that  I  could  not  for  my 
life  help  telling  him  how  delighted  I  was  to  meet,  for  once,  an  English- 
man who  was  not  reserved  towards  strangers,  whereupon  he,  without 
smiling,  quite  as  candidly  remarked  that  he  merely  talked  with  me 
for  the  sake  of  practice  in  French. 

It  is  amazing  how  the  French,  day  by  day,  become  more  reflecting, 
deeper  and  more  serious,  while  the  English  on  the  other  hand  strive 
to  assume  a  light,  superficial  and  cheerful  manner;  not  merely  in 
life  but  in  literature.  The  London  presses  are  fully  busied  with 
fashionable  works,  with  romances  which  move  in  the  glittering  sphere 
of  "high  life,"  or  mirror  it,  as  for  instance,  "  Almacks,"  or  "  Vivian 
Grey,"  "  Tremaine,"  "  The  Guards,"  and  "  Flirtation."  This  last 
romance  bears  a  name  which  would  be  most  appropriate  for  the 
whole  species,  since  it  indicates  that  coquetry  with  foreign  airs  and 
phrases,  that  clumsy  refinement,  that  heavy  bumping  lightness, 
that  sour  style  of  honied  compliment,  that  ornamented  coarseness, 
in  a  word,  the  entire  lifeless  life  of  those  wooden  butterflies,  who 
flutter  in  the  saloons  of  West  London. 

But,  on  the  contrary,  what  a  literature  is  at  present  offered  us  by 
the  French  press  —  that  real  representative  of  French  spirit  and 
volition  !  When  their  great  Emperor  undertook  in  the  leisure  of  his 
captivity  to  dictate  his  life,  to  reveal  the  most  secret  solutions  of  the 
enigmas  of.  his  divine  soul,  and  to  change  the  rocks  of  St.  Helena  to 
a  chair  of  history,  from  whose  height,  his  cotemporaries  should  be 
judged,  and  latest  posterity  be  taught,  then  the  French  themselves 
begun  to  employ  the  days  of  their  adversity  and  the  period  of  their 
political  inactivity  as  profitably  as  possible.  They  also  are  now 
writing  the  history  of  their  deeds,  the  hands  which  once  grasped  the 

36 


—    422  — 


sword  are  again  becoming  a  terror  to  their  enemies  by  wielding  the 
pen,  the  whole  nation  is  busied  in  publishing  its  memoirs,  and  if  it 
will  follow  my  advice  it  will  prepare  a  particular  edition  ad  usum 
Delphini,  with  nicely  colored  engravings  of  the  taking  of  the  Bastile, 
and  storming  of  the  Tuileries. 

If  I  have  above  remarked,  that  the  English  of  the  present  day  are 
seeking  to  become  light  and  frivolous,  and  endeavoring  to  creep  into 
the  monkey's  skin  which  the  French  are  gradually  stripping  off,  I 
must  also  add  that  the  tendency  in  question  proceeds  rather  from 
the  nobility  and  gentry,  or  aristocratic  world,  than  from  the  citizens. 
On  the  contrary,  the  trading  and  working  portion  of  the  people, 
especially  the  merchants  in  the  manufacturing  towns,  and  nearly  all 
the  Scotch,  bear  the  external  marks  of  pietism — yes,  I  might  almost 
say  of  puritanism,  so  that  this  blessed  portion  of  the  people  contrast 
with  the  worldly-minded  aristocrats,  like  the  cavaliers  and  round- 
heads, so  truthfully  set  forth  by  Scott  in  his  novels.  Those  readers 
honor  the  Scottish  bard  too  highly,  who  believe  that  his  genius 
imitated  and  penetrated  the  outer  form  and  inner  manner  of  feeling 
of  those  two  historical  parties,  and  that  it  is  an  indication  of  his 
poetic  greatness7  that  he,  free  from  prejudice  as  a  God  in  his  judg- 
ment, does  justice  to  both,  and  treats  them  with  equal  love.  Let 
any  one  cast  a  glance  into  the  prayer  meetings  of  Liverpool  or  Man- 
chester, and  then  into  the  fashionable  saloons  of  the  West  End,  and 
he  will  plainly  see  that  Walter  Scott  has  simply  described  his  own 
times,  and  clothed  forms  which  are  altogether  modern,  in  dresses  of 
the  olden  time.  And  if  we  remember  that  he  himself  from  one  side 
as  a  Scotchman,  sucked  in  by  education  and  national  influence  a 
Puritan  spirit,  while  on  the  other  side,  as  a  tory  who  even  regarded 
himself  as  a  scion  of  the  Stuarts,  he  must  have  been  right  royally 
and  aristocratically  inclined,  and  that  therefore  his  feelings  and 
thoughts  must  have  embraced  either  tendency  with  equal  love,  and 
must  also  have  been  neutralised  by  their  opposition,  we  can  very 
readily  understand  his  impartiality  in  describing  the  democrats  and 
aristocrats  of  Cromwell's  time,  an  impartiality  which  might  well 
lead  us  into  error  if  we  hoped  to  find  in  his  History  of  Napoleon, 
an  equally  "  fair  play"  description  of  the  heroes  of  the  French 
Revolution. 

He  who  regards  England  attentively  may  now  find  daily  opportu- 
nities of  observing  those  two  tendencies,  the  frivolous  and  the  puri- 
tanic, in  their  most  repulsive  vigor,  and  with  them  of  course  their 
mutual  contest.    Such  an  opportunity  was  recently  manifested  in 


—   423  — 


the  famous  suit  at  law  of  Mr.  Wakefield,  a  gay  cavalier,  who,  in  an 
off-hand  manner  eloped  with  the  daughter  of  the  rich  Mr.  Turnfr,  a 
Liverpool  merchant,  and  married  her  at  Gretna  Green,  where  a 
blacksmith  lives  who  forges  the  strongest  sort  of  fetters.  The 
entire  head-hanging  community,  the  whole  race  of  the  elect  of  the 
Lord  screamed  murder  at  such  horrible  conduct ;  in  the  conventicles 
of  Liverpool  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  was  evoked  on  Wakefield 
and  his  brother  who  assisted — they  prayed  that  the  earth's  abyss 
might  swallow  them  as  it  once  swallowed  Korah,  Dathan  and 
Abtragt,  while  to  make  celestial  anger  more  certain,  they  bfoughl 
the  thunders  of  the  King's  Bench,  of  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  even 
of  the  Upper  House  to  bear  on  this  profaner  of  the  holy  sacra- 
ment -  while  in  the  fashionable  saloons  people  merely  laughed 
merrily  and  jested  in  the  most  liberal  manner,  at  the  bold  damsel- 
stealer.  But  the  contrast  of  the  two  states  of  thought  or  feeling 
was  recently  shown  me  in  the  most  delightful  manner,  as  I  sat  in  the 
grand  opera  near  two  fat  Manchester  ladies,  who  visited  this  rendez- 
vous of  the  aristocratic  world  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  and  who 
could  not  find  words  strong  enough  to  express  the  utter  detestation 
and  abhorrence  which  filled  their  hearts  as  the  ballet  began,  and  the 
short-skirted  beautiful  dancing  girls  exhibited  their  lasciviously 
graceful  movements,  and  fell  passionately,  like  burning  Bacchantes, 
into  the  arms  of  the  male  dancers  who  leaped  towards  them.  The 
inspiring  music,  the  primitive  clothing  of  flesh  colored  stockinet,  the 
bounds  so  like  the  exuberance  of  nature,  all  united  to  force  the  sweat 
of  agony  from  the  poor  ladies — their  bosoms  flushed  with  repugnance, 
they  continually  heaved  out  in  chorus  " shocking !  for  shame!  for 
shame!"  and  were  so  benumbed  with  horror,  that  they  could  not  for 
an  instant  take  their  opera-glasses  from  their  eyes,  and  consequently 
remained  in  that  situation  to  the  last  instant  when  the  curtain  fell. 

Despite  these  diametrically  opposed  tendencies  of  mind  and  of  life, 
we  still  find  in  the  English  people  an  unity  in  their  way  of  thinking, 
which  comes  from  the  very  fact  that  they  are  always  realizing  that 
they  are  a  people  by  themselves ;  the  modern  cavaliers  and  round- 
heads may  hate  and  despise  one  another  mutually  and  as  much  as 
they  please,  they  do  not  for  all  that  cease  to  be  English ;  as  such 
they  are  at  union  and  together,  like  plants  which  have  grown  out  of 
the  same  soil,  and  are  strangely  interwoven  with  it.  Hence  the 
secret  unity  of  the  entire  life  and  activity  and  intercourse  of  England, 
which  at  the  first  glance  seems  to  us  but  a  theatre  of  confusion  and 
of  contradiction.    Excessive  wealth  and  misery,  orthodoxy  and  infi- 


—    424  — 


delity,  freedom  and  serfdom,  cruelty  and  mildness,  honor  and  deceit; 
all  of  these  incongruities  in  their  maddest  extremes,  over  all  a  gray 
misty  heaven,  on  every  side  buzzing  machines,  reckoning,  gas  lights, 
chimneys,  pots  of  porter,  closed  mouths,  all  this  hangs  together  in 
such-wise,  that  we  can  hardly  think  of  the  one  without  the  other,  and 
that  which  singly,  really  ought  to  excite  our  astonishment  or  laughter, 
appears  to  be,  when  taken  as  a  part  of  the  whole,  quite  commonplace 
and  serious. 

But  I  imagine  that  such  would  be  the  case  everywhere,  even  in 
countries  of  which  we  have  much  more  eccentric  conceptions,  and 
where  we  anticipate  a  much  richer  booty  of  merriment  or  amaze- 
ment. Our  earnest  longing  to  travel,  our  desire  to  see  foreign  lands, 
particularly  as  we  feel  it  in  early  youth,  generally  results  from  an 
erroneous  anticipation  of  extraordinary  contrasts,  and  from  that 
spiritual  pleasure  in  masquerades,  which  makes  us  involuntarily 
expect  to  find  the  men  and  manner  of  thought  of  our  own  home,  and 
to  a  certain  degree  pur  nearest  friends  and  acquaintances,  dis- 
guised in  foreign  dress  and  mauners.  If  we  think  for  example  of  the 
Hottentots,  at  once  the  ladies  of  our  native  town  dance  around  in 
our  imaginations,  but  painted  black  and  endowed  with  the  proper  a 
posteriori  developments,  while  our  beaux  esprits  climb  the  palm-trees 
as  bush-beaters  ;  and  if  we  think  of  the  North-Polanders,  we  see 
there  also  the  well  known  faces,  our  aunt  glides  in  her  dog-sleigh 
over  the  ice  road,  the  dry  Herr  Conrector  lies  lazy  on  the  bear  skin, 
and  calmly  sips  his  morning  train-oil,  Madame  the  inspector's  wife, 
Madame  the  tax  gatherer's  lady  and  Madame,  the  wife  of  the 
Councillor  of  Infibulation  gossip  together  and  munch  candles.  But 
when  we  are  really  in  those  countries  we  at  once  observe  that 
mankind  has  there  grown  up  from  infancy  with  its  manners  and 
modes,  that  people's  faces  harmonise  with  their  thoughts  and  needs — 
yes  that  plants,  animals,  human  beings  and  the  land  itself  form  a 
harmonious  whole. 

4. 

THE  LIFE  OF  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 

BY  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Poor  Walter  Scott  !  Hadst  thou  been  rich  thou  would'st  not 
have  written  that  book,  and  so  had'st  not  become  a  poor  Walter 


—    425  — 


Scott  !  But  the  trustees  of  the  Constable  estate  met  together,  and 
reckoned  up  and  ciphered,  and  after  much  subtraction  and  division, 
shook  their  heads  and  there  remained  for  poor  Walter  Scott  nothing 
but  laurels  and  debts.  Then  the  most  extraordinary  of  all  came  to 
pass ;  the  singer  of  great  deeds  wished  for  once  to  try  his  hand  at 
heroism,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  a  cessio  bonorum,  the  laurels  of  the 
great  unknown  were  taxed  to  cover  great  and  well-known  debts — 
and  so  there  came  to  life  in  hungry  haste,  in  bankrupt  inspiration, 
the  Life  of  Napoleon,  a  book  to  be  roundly  paid  for  by  the  wants 
of  the  English  people  in  general,  and  of  the  English  ministry  in 
particular. 

Praise  him,  the  brave  citizen  !  praise  him  ye  united  Philistines  of 
all  the  earth !  praise  him  thou  beautiful  shopkeeper's  virtue  which 
sacrificest  everything  to  meet  a  note  on  the  day  when  it  is  due — only 
do  not  ask  of  me  that  I  praise  him  too  ! 

Strange  !  the  dead  emperor  is  even  in  his  grave,  the  bane  of  the 
Britons,  and  through  him,  Britannia's  greatest  poet  has  lost  his 
laurels ! 

He  was  Britannia's  greatest  poet,  let  people  say  and  imagine  what 
they  will.  It  is  true  that  the  critics  of  his  romances  carped  and 
cavilled  at  his  greatness,  and  reproached  him,  that  he  assumed  too 
much  breadth  in  execution,  that  he  went  too  much  into  details,  that 
his  great  characters  were  only  formed  by  the  combination  of  a  mass 
of  minor  traits,  that  he  required  an  endless  array  of  accessories  to 
bring  out  his  bold  effects — but  to  tell  the  truth,  he  resembled  in  all 
this  a  millionaire,  who  keeps  his  whole  property  in  the  firm  of  small 
specie,  and  who  must  drive  up  three  or  four  wagons  lull  of  sacks  of 
pence  and  farthings  when  he  has  a  large  sum  to  pay.  Should  any 
one  complain  of  the  ill-manners  of  such  a  style  of  liquidation  with  its 
attendant  troubles  of  heavy  lifting  and  hauling,  and  endless  counting, 
he  can  reply  with  perfect  truth,  that  no  matter  how  he  gives  the 
money,  he  still  gives  it,  and  that  he  is  in  reality  just  as  well  able  to 
pay,  and  quite  as  rich  as  another  who  owns  nothing  but  bullion  in 
bars,  yes,  that  he  even  has  an  advantage  greater  than  that  of  mere 
facility  of  transport,  since  in  the  vegetable  market  gold  bars  are 
useless,  while  every  huckster  woman  will  grab  with  both  hands  at 
pence  and  farthings  when  they  are  offered  her.  Now,  all  this  popular 
wealth  of  the  British  poet  is  at  an  end,  and  he,  whose  change  was  so 
current  that  the  Duchess  and  the  cobbler's  wife  received  it  with  the 
same  interest  has  now  become  a  poor  Walter  Scott.  His  destiny 
recalls  the  legend  of  the  mountain  elves,  who,  mockingly  benevolent, 

36* 


—   426  — 

gave  money  to  poor  people  which  was  bright  and  profitable  so  long 
as  they  spent  it  wisely,  but  which  turned  to  mere  dust  when  applied 
to  unworthy  purposes.  Sack  by  sack  we  opened  Walter  Scott's 
new  load — and  lo !  instead  of  gleaming  smiling  pence  there  was 
nothing  but  idle  dust,  and  dust  again  !  He  was  justly  punished  by 
those  mountain  elves  of  Parnassus,  the  Muses,  who  like  all  noble- 
minded  women  are  enthusiastic  Napoleonists,  and  who  were  conse- 
quently doubly  enraged  at  the  misuse  of  the  spirit  treasure  which 
had  been  loaned. 

The  value  and  tendency  of  this  work  of  Scott's  have  been  shown 
up  in  the  journals  of  all  Europe.  Not  only  the  embittered  French, 
but  also  the  astonished  fellow  countrymen  of  the  author  have  uttered 
sentence  of  condemnation  against  it.  In  such  a  world-wide  discon- 
tent the  Germans  must  also  have  their  share,  and  therefore  the 
Stuttgard  Literary  Journal*  spoke  out  with  a  fiery  zeal,  difficult  to 
restrain  within  due  limit,  while  the  Berlin  Annuals  of  Scientific 
Criticism,^  expressed  itself  in  tones  of  cold  tranquillity,  and  the 
critic  who  was  the  more  readily  swayed  by  that  tranquillity,  the  less 
he  admired  the  hero  of  the  book,  characterises  it  with  these  admirably 
appropriate  words. 

"  In  this  narration  we  find  neither  substance  nor  color,  harmony 
nor  life.  The  mighty  subject  drags  heavily  along,  entangled  in 
superficial,  not  in  profound  perplexities,  uncertain  and  changeable 
without  any  manifestation  of  the  characteristic;  no  leading  principle 
strikes  us  in  its  affected  singularity,  its  violent  points  are  nowhere 
visible,  its  connection  is  merely  external,  its  subject  matter  and  sig- 
nificance are  hardly  appreciable.  In  such  a  manner  of  portrayal  all 
the  light  of  history  must  be  quenched,  and  itself  be  reduced  to,  not 
wonderful,  but  common-place  stories.  The  unnecessary  remarks 
and  reflections  which  often  intrude  themselves  on  the  subject  under 
consideration  are  of  a  corresponding  description.  Such  a  watery 
transparent  preparation  has  long  been  out  of  date  in  our  reading 
world.  The  scanty  pattern  of  a  moral,  applicable  only  to  certain 
particulars  is  unsatisfactory.  " 

I  would  willingly  pardon  poor  Scott  for  such  and  even  worse 
things  to  which  the  sharp  witted,  Berlin  reviewer,  Yarnhagen  von 
Ense  gives  utterance.  We  are  all  mortal  and  the  best  of  us  may 
once  in  a  while  write  a  bad  book.  People  then  say  that  the  thing 
is  below  criticism  and,  that  ends  the  matter.    But  it  is  really  extra- 

*  Stuttgarter  Literaturblatt 

|-  Berliner  Jahrbücher  fur  wissenschaftliche  Critik. 


—   427  — 

ordinary  that  in  this  new  work  we  do  not  find  a  trace  of  Scott's 
beautiful  style.  The  colorless  commonplace  strain  is  spriukled  in  vain 
with  sundry  red,  green,  and  blue  words,  in  vain  do  glittering  patches 
from  the  poets  cover  the  prosaic  nakedness,  in  vain  does  the  authoi 
rob  all  Noah's  ark  to  find  bestial  comparisons,  and  in  vain  is  the 
word  of  G-OD  itself  cited  to  heighten  the  color  of  stupid  thoughts. 
Stranger  still  is  it  that  Walter  Scott  has  not  here  succeeded  in  a 
single  effort  to  bring  into  play  his  inborn  talent  of  sketching  charac- 
ters, and  of  catching  the  traits  of  the  outer  Napoleon.  Walter 
Scott  learned  nothing  from  those  beautiful  pictures  which  represent 
Napoleon  surrounded  by  his  generals  and  statesmen,  though  every 
one  who  regards  them  without  prejudice,  must  be  deeply  moved  by 
the  tragic  tranquillity  and  antique  severity  of  those  features,  which 
contrast  in  such  fearful  sublimity  with  the  modern,  excitable,  pictur- 
esque faces  of  the  day,  and  which  seem  to  announce  something  of  the 
incarnate  God.  But  if  the  Scottish  poet  could  not  comprehend  the 
form,  how  much  less  capable  must  he  have  been  of  grasping  the 
character  of  the  Emperor,  and  I  therefore  willingly  pardon  his  blas- 
phemy of  a  divinity  whom  he  never  knew.  And  I  must  also  forgive 
him  that  he  regards  his  Wellington  as  a  god,  and  in  deifying 
him,  falls  into  such  excessive  manifestations  of  piety,  that,  rich  as 
he  is  in  figures  of  beasts,  he  knows  not  wherewith  to  compare  him. 

But  if  I  am  tolerant  towards  Walter  Scott,  and  forgive  him  the 
emptiness,  errors,  slanders  and  stupid  things  in  his  book — nay,  if  I 
even  pardon  him  the  weariness  and  ennui  which  its  reading  caused 
me — I  cannot  for  all  that  forgive  him  its  tendency.  This  is  nothing 
less  than  the  exculpation  of  the  English  Ministry  as  regards  the 
crime  of  St.  Helena.  "  In  this  case  of  equity  between  the  English 
Ministry  and  public  opinion,"  as  the  Berlin  reviewer  expresses  it, 
"Walter  Scott  makes  himself  judge  of  its  merits,"  he  couples  legal 
quibblings  with  his  poetic  talent,  in  order  to  distort  both  facts  and 
history,  and  his  clients,  who  are  at  the  same  time  his  patrons,  may 
well  afford,  beside  the  regular  fees,  to  privately  press  an  extra  douceur 
into  his  hand. 

The  English  have  merely  murdered  the  Emperor — but  Walter 
Scott  sold  him.  It  was  a  real  Scotch  trick,  a  regular  specimen  of 
Scottish  national  manners,  and  we  see  that  Scotch  avarice  is  still  the 
same  old  dirty  spirit  as  ever,  and  has  not  changed  much  since  the 
days  of  Naseby,  when  the  Scotch  sold  their  own  king,  who  had 
confided  himself  to  their  protection,  for  the  sum  of  four  hundred 
thousand  pounds   sterling.     That  king  was  the   same  Charles 


—   428  — 

Stuart,  whom  the  bards  of  Caledonia  now  sing  so  gloriously — the 
Englishman  murders,  but  the  Scotchman  sells  and  sings. 

The  English  Ministry,  to  aid  in  the  work,  threw  open  the  archives 
of  the  Foreign  Office  to  their  advocate,  and  he  has,  in  the  ninth 
volume  of  his  work,  scrupulously  availed  himself  of  every  official 
document  which  could  throw  an  advantageous  light  upon  his  own 
side,  and  a  corresponding  darkness  upon  that  of  his  enemies.  On 
this  account,  the  ninth  volume  in  question,  still  possesses  a  peculiar 
interest,  despite  all  its  aesthetic  worthlessness,  in  which  it  is  in  no 
respect  behind  its  predecessors.  We  expect  in  it  important  public 
papers,  and  since  we  find  none,  it  is  a  proof  that  there  were  noue  in 
existence  which  spoke  in  favor  of  the  English  ministers, — and  this 
negative  content  of  the  book  is  an  important  result. 

All  the  booty  thus  obtained  from  the  English  archives  was  limited 
to  a  few  credible  documents  from  the  noble  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  and 
his  myrmidons,  and  a  few  verbal  expressions  of  General  Gourgaud, 
who,  if  he  really  uttered  them,  deserves  to  be  regarded  as  a  shame- 
less traitor  to  his  imperial  master  and  benefactor.  I  will  not  inquire 
into  the  authenticity  of  these  expressions  ;  it  even  seems  to  be  true 
that  Baron  Turner,  one  of  the  three  mute  supernumeraries  of  the 
great  tragedy,  has  borne  witness  to  them  ;  but  I  do  not  see  to  what 
favorable  result  they  lead,  save  that  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  was  not  the 
only  blackguard  in  St.  Helena.  With  such  assistance,  and  with 
pitiable  suggestions  of  his  own,  Walter  Scott  treats  the  history  of 
the  imprisonment  of  Napoleon,  and  labors  to  convince  us  that  the 
ex-Emperor — so  the  ex-poet  terms  him — could  not  have  acted  more 
wisely  than  to  yield  himself  to  the  English,  although  he  must  have 
foreseen  his  banishment  to  St.  Helena,  and  that  he  was  there  treated 
in  the  most  charming  manner,  since  he  had  plenty  to  eat  and  to 
drink  ;  and  that  he,  finally,  fresh  and  sound,  and  as  a  good  Christian, 
died  of  a  cancer  in  his  stomach. 

Walter  Scott,  by  thus  admitting,  to  a  certain  degree,  that  the 
Emperor  foresaw  how  far  the  generosity  of  the  English  would  extend, 
viz.,  to  St.  Helena,  frees  him  at  least  from  the  common  reproach  : 
the  tragic  sublimity  of  his  ill  fortune  so  greatly  inspired  him,  that  he- 
regarded  civilized  Englishmen  as  Persian  barbarians,  and  looked  upon 
the  beef-steak  kitchen  of  St.  James'  as  the  fire-side  of  a  great  mon- 
arch— and  so  committed  a  heroic  blunder.  Sir  Walter  Scott  also 
makes  of  the  Emperor  the  greatest  poet  who  ever  lived,  since  he 
very  seriously  insinuates  that  all  the  memorable  writings  which  set 
forth  his  sufferings  in  St.  Helena,  were  collectively  dictated  by  himself. 


—    429  — 


I  cannot  here  refrain  from  the  remark,  that  this  part  of  "Walter 
Scott's  book,  with  the  writings  themselves  of  which  he  speaks, 
especially  the  memoirs  of  O'Meara  and  the  narrative  of  Captain 
Maitland,  remind  me  sometimes  so  pointedly  of  the  drollest  story 
in  the  world,  that  the  bitterest  vexation  of  my  soul  suddenly  bursts 
out  into  merry  laughter.  And  the  story  of  which  I  speak  is  none 
other  than  the  History  of  Lemuel  Gulliver,  a  book  over  which  I,  as  a 
boy,  once  had  rare  times,  and  in  which  much  that  is  exquisitely 
delightful  may  be  read  :  how  the  little  Lilliputians  could  not  conceive 
what  was  to  be  done  with  their  great  prisoner ;  how  they  climbed 
upon  him  by  thousands,  and  bound  him  down  with  innumerable  fine 
hairs  ;  how  they,  with  preparations  on  a  grand  scale,  built  for  him  a 
great  house,  all  to  himself;  how  they  bewailed  the  vast  amount  of 
victuals  with  which  they  must  daily  provide  him ;  how  they  con- 
tinually blackened  his  character  in  the  State  Council,  always  grieving 
that  he  was  too  great  a  cost  to  the  country  ;  how  they  would  gladly 
have  destroyed  him,  but  feared  lest  in  death  his  corpse  might  bring 
forth  a  pestilence ;  how  they  finally  made  up  their  minds  to  be  most 
gloriously  magnanimous  and  leave  him  his  titles,  only  putting  out  his 
eyes,  &c.  Truly,  Lilliput  is  everywhere  where  a  great  man  is  sub- 
jected to  little  ones,  who  torment  him  incessantly,  in  the  most  piti- 
fully petty  manner,  and  who  in  turn  endure  from  him  great  suffering 
and  dire  extremity, — but  had  Dean  Swift  written  his  book  in  our 
day,  the  world  would  have  seen,  in  his  brilliantly  polished  mirror,  only 
the  history  of  the  imprisonment  of  the  Emperor,  and  have  recognized 
even  in  the  very  color  of  the  coats  and  countenances,  those  dwarfs 
who  tormented  him. 

Only  the  conclusion  of  the  story  of  St.  Helena  is  somewhat  dif- 
ferent, for  in  it  the  Emperor  dies  of  a  cancer  in  the  stomach,  and 
Walter  Scott  assures  us  that  it  was  the  sole  cause  of  his  death.  In 
this  I  will  not  contradict  him.  The  thing  is  not  impossible.  It  is 
possible  that  a  man  who  lies  stretched  on  the  rack  may  suddenly,  and 
very  naturally,  die  of  an  apoplexy.  But  the  wicked  world  will  say 
that  the  tormentor  was  the  cause  of  his  death.  And  the  wicked 
world  has  taken  it  into  its  head  to  regard  the  affair  in  question  in  a 
very  different  light  from  our  good  Walter  Scott.  If  this  good  man, 
who  is  in  other  respects  so  firm  in  his  Bible,  and  who  so  readily  quotes 
the  gospel,  sees  in  that  uproar  of  elements  and  in  that  hurricane 
which  burst  forth  at  the  death  of  Napoleon,  nothing  but  an  event 
which  also  took  place  at  the  death  of  Cromwell,  the  world  will  still 
have  its  own  peculiar  thoughts  regarding  it.    It  regards  the  death 


—   430  — 

of  Napoleon  as  a  most  terrible,  tremendous  and  revolting  crime, 
and  its  wild  burst  of  agonized  feeling  becomes  adoration.  In  vain 
does  Walter  Scott  play  the  advocator*  diaboli — the  canonization 
of  the  dead  Emperor  flows  from  every  noble  heart ;  every  noble  heart 
of  the  great  European  fatherland  despises  his  petty  executioners,  and 
with  them  the  great  bard  who  has  sung  himself  into  being  their 
accomplice.  The  Muses  will  yet  inspire  better  singers  in  honor  of 
their  favorite  ;  and  should  men  be  dumb,  then  the  stones  will  speak, 
and  the  martyr-cliffs  of  St.  Helena  will  rise  fearfully  from  the  waves 
of  the  sea,  and  tell  to  thousands  of  years  their  terrible  story. 


OLD  BAILEY. 

The  very  name  of  "  Old  Bailey"  sends  a  shudder  through  the  soul. 
We  at  once  think  of  a  great,  black,  repulsive  building — the  palace 
of  misery  and  of  crime.  The  left  wing,  which  forms  the  real  New- 
gate, serves  as  a  prison  for  criminals.  In  it  we  see  nothing  but  a  high 
wall  of  square,  weather-blackened  stones,  in  which  are  two  niches,  with 
equally  black,  allegorical  figures,  one  of  which,  unless  I  err,  repre- 
sents Justice,  whose  right  hand,  with  the  scales,  is,  as  usual,  broken 
off,  so  that  nothing  remains  but  a  blind  female  figure  with  a  sword. 
Not  far  off,  and  about  the  centre  of  the  building,  is  the  altar  of  this 
goddess,  that  is  to  say,  the  window  by  which  the  gallows  is  erected, 
and  finally,  to  the  right  is  the  Criminal  Court,  where  the  quarter 
sessions  are  held.  Here  is  a  gate  which,  like  that  of  Dante's  Hell, 
should  bear  the  inscription  : 

"  Per  me  si  va  ne  la  citta  dolente, 
Per  me  si  va  ne  l'eterno  dolore, 
Per  me  si  va  tra  la  perduta  gente." 

Through  this  gate  we  come  to  a  small  court,  where  the  scum  of  the 
people  assemble  to  see  criminals  pass,  and  here  their  friends  and  ene- 
mies also  assemble — relations,  beggar-children,  weak-minded  people, 
and  especially  old  women,  who  discuss  the  criminal  cases  of  the  day 
perhaps,  with  more  insight  into  their  merits  than  judge  and  jury  pos- 
sess, despite  the  time  so  pleasanlty  passed  in  ceremonies,  or  so  drearily 
lost  in  law.  Why,  I  have  seen,  outside  the  court  door,  an  old  woman 
who,  amid  her  gossips,  defended  poor  Black  William  better  than  his 


—   431  — 


very  learned  counsel  did  within — and  as  she  wiped  away  her  last  tear 
with  a  ragged  apron,  it  seemed  to  me  that  with  it  vanished  the  last 
trace  of  William's  guilt. 

In  the  court-room  itself,  which  is  not  very  large,  there  is  below — 
beyond  the  so-called  "  bar," — little  room  for  the  public,  but  in  the 
upper  portion  there  are,  on  both  sides,  very  spacious  galleries,  with 
raised  benches,  where  the  spectators  stand,  their  heads  appearing  as 
if  piled  in  rows,  step  above  step. 

When  I  visited  Old  Bailey,  I  obtained  a  place  in  one  of  these 
galleries,  for  which  I  gave  the  old  porteress  a  shilling.  I  arrived  just 
at  the  instant  in  which  the  jury  were  about  to  determine  whether 
Black  William  was  guilty  or  not  guilty  of  the  accusation. 

Here,  as  in  other  courts  of  justice  in  London,  the  judges  sit  in 
blue-black  togas,  which  are  trimmed  with  light  blue  violet,  and  wear 
white  powdered  wigs  with  which  black  eyes  and  whiskers,  frequently 
contrast  in  the  drollest  manner.  They  sit  around  a  long  green  table 
on  high  chairs  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  just  where  a  Scripture 
text,  warning  against  unjust  judgments,  is  placed  before  their  eyes. 
On  either  side  are  benches  for  the  jurymen,  and  places  where  the 
prosecutors  and  witnesses  stand.  Directly  opposite  the  judges,  is  the 
place  for  the  accused,  which  latter  do  not  sit  on  "the  poor  sinners' 
bench"  as  in  the  criminal  courts  of  France  and  Rhenish  Germany, 
but  must  stand  upright  behind  a  singular  plank,  which  is  carved 
above  like  a  narrow  arched  gate.  In  this  an  optic  mirror  is  placed, 
by  means  of  which  the  judge  is  enabled  to  accurately  observe  the 
countenance  of  the  accused.  Before  the  latter,  certain  green  leaves 
or  herbs  are  placed  to  strengthen  their  nerves — and  it  may  be  that 
this  is  sometimes  necessary,  when  a  man  is  in  danger  of  losing  his 
life.  On  the  judges'  table  I  saw  similar  green  leaves,  and  even  a 
rose.  I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  the  sight  of  that  rose  affected  me 
strangely.  A  red  blooming  rose,  the  flower  of  love  and  of  spring, 
upon  the  terrible  judges'  table  of  the  Old  Bailey !  It  was  close, 
gloomy  and  sultry  in  the  hall.  Everything  seemed  so  fearfully  vexa- 
tious, so  insanely  serious  !  the  people  present  looked  as  though 
spiders  were  creeping  over  their  shy  and  fearful  faces.  The  iron 
scales  rattled  audibly  over  the  head  of  poor  Black  William. 

A  jury  had  also  formed  itself  in  the  gallery.  A  fat  woman,  above 
whose  red  bloated  cheeks  two  little  eyes  glittered  like  glow  worms, 
made  the  remark,  that  Black  William  was  a  very  good-looking 
fellow.  But  her  neighbor,  a  delicate  piping  soul  in  a  body  of  bad 
post-paper,  declared  that  he  wore  his  black  hair  too  long  and  matted, 


—    432  — 

and  that  his  eyes  gleamed  like  those  of  Kean  in  Othello,  "while  on 
the  other  hand,"  she  continued,  "  Thompson  is  a  very  different  sort 
of  a  person  mem,  I  assure  you,  with  light  hair  and  very  well  edecated 
person  too,  mem — for  he  plays  the  flute  a  little,  and  paints  a  little, 
and  speaks  French  a  little" — "  And  steals  a  little  too — hey?*' — added 
the  fat  woman.  "  Fiddlesticks  on  stealing !"  replied  the  lean 
body — "  that  is'nt  half  so  bad,  mem,  as  forgery,  you  know ;  for  a 
thief,  if  he's  stolen  nothing  but  a  sheep,  gets  Botany  Bay  for  it, 
but  if  a  man  counterfeits  somebody's  hand — why  he  hangs  for  it. 
mem — as  sure  as  fate,  without  pity  or  mercy."  "Without  pity  or 
mercy  !"  sighed  a  half-starved  mau  in  a  widower  looking  black  coat. 
"  Hang! — why,  why  no  man  has  a  right  to  put  another  to  death,  and 
Christians  ought  to  be  the  last  to  think  of  it,  for  they  ought  to 
remember  that  Christ  our  Lord  and  Saviour,  who  gave  ns  our 
religion,  was  innocent  when  he  was  tried  and  executed!"  "Pshaw!" 
cried  the  lean  woman,  and  smiled  with  her  thin  lips — "  if  they  did'nt 
hang  such  a  forger,  no  rich  man  would  ever  be  sure  of  his  money,  for 
instance,  the  fat  Jew  in  Lombard  street,  Saint  Swithin's  lane,  or  our 
friend  Mr.  Scott  whose  writing  was  imitated  so  well.  And  then  Mr. 
Scott  has  worked  so  hard  to  get  his  money — trouble  enough  mem, 
I  assure  you — and  folks  do  say  that  he  got  rich  by  taking  other 
peoples'  diseases  on  himself.  Yes,  mem,  they  say  the  very  children 
run  after  him  in  the  street,  and  cry  '  I'll  give  ye  six  pence  if  you'll 
take  my  toothache  !'  or  •  we'll  give  ye  a  shilling,  if  you'll  take  Jim- 
my's hump-back !'  "  u  Well ! — that's  odd  !"  interrupted  the  fat 
woman.  "  And  it's  odd  too,  that  Black  William  and  Thompson 
used  to  be  such  cronies  together,  and  lived  and  ate  and  drank 
together,  and  now,  James  Thompson  accuses  his  old  friend  of  forgery  1 
But  why  isu't  Thompson's  sister  here  ? — why  she  used  to  be  a-run- 
ning  everywhere  after  her  sweet  William."  A  pretty  girl,  on  whose 
lovely  face  lay  a  deep  expression  of  grief,  like  a  dark  veil  over  a 
rose  bouquet,  here  whispered  with  tears,  a  long  sad  story,  of  which  I 
could  only  understand  that  her  friend,  the  pretty  Mary,  had  been 
cruelly  beaten  by  her  brother,  and  lay  sick  to  death  in  her  bed. 
"  Pshaw !" — don't  call  her  '  pretty  Mary,'  grumbled  the  fat  woman, 
discontentedly,  "  she's  too  slim,  too  much  like  a  stick,  to  be  called 
pretty,  and  if  her  AVilliam  is  hung — " 

Just  at  this  instant  the  jury  appeared,  and  declared  that  the 
accused  was  guilty  of  forgery.  As  Black  William  was  led  from  the 
hall,  he  cast  a  long,  long  glance  upon  Edward  Thompson. 

There  is  an  eastern  legend  that  Satan  was  ouce  an  angel,  and 


—   433    —  - 

lived  in  heaven  with  other  angels,  until  he  sought  to  seduce  them 
from  their  allegiance,  and  therefore,  he  was  thrust  down  by  Divinity, 
into  the  endless  night  of  hell.  But  as  he  sank  from  heaven,  he 
looked  ever  on  high,  ever  at  the  angel  who  accused  him  ;  the  deeper 
he  sank,  more  terrible  and  yet  more  terrible  became  his  gaze.  And 
it  must  have  been  a  fearful  glance,  for  the  angel  whom  it  met  became 
pale — red  was  never  again  seen  in  his  cheeks,  and  since  that  time  he 
has  been  called  the  Angel  of  Death. 

Pale  as  that  Angel  of  Death,  grew  Edward  Thompson. 


6. 

THE  NEW  MINISTRY. 

Last  summer,  I  made  in  Bedlam  the  acquaintance  of  a  philoso- 
pher, who,  with  mysterious  looks  and  whispers,  communicated  to  me 
many  weighty  conclusions  as  to  the  origin  of  evil.  Like  many  of  his 
colleagues,  he  held  the  opinion  that  it  involved  a  history.  So  far  as 
I  was  concerned,  I  also  assented  to  what  he  assumed  and  declared, 
that  the  fundamental  evil  of  the  world  arose  from  the  fact  that  the 
blessed  Lord  had  not  created  money  enough. 

"  You're  right,"  replied  the  philosopher :  "  the  blessed  Lord  was 
uncommongly  short  of  funds,  when  he  created  the  world.  He  had  to 
borrow  money  of  the  devil,  and  mortgage  the  world  to  him  as  a 
pledge.  But  as  the  Lord,  according  to  every  law  of  God  and  of 
justice  is  still  in  debt  to  him  for  the  world;  common  politeness  of 
course  hindered  him  from  preventing  his  creditor  going  about  in  the 
property,  and  making  all  sorts  of  trouble  and  mischief.  But  the 
Devil  for  his  part,  is  deeply  interested  in  the  preservation  of  the 
world,  lest  he  lose  his  pledge,  so  that  he  takes  good  care  that  things 
do  not  go  altogether  to  the  devil,  and  the  blessed  Lord  who  is  not 
stupid  by  any  means,  and  who  knows  very  well  that  he  has  his  secret 
guarantee  in  the  Devil's  selfishness,  often  goes  so  far  as  to  give  over 
the  whole  government  of  the  world  to  old  Nick — that  is  to  say,  tells 
him  to  form  a  ministry.  Then,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Samiel  takes 
command  of  the  armies  of  hell,  Beelzebub  becomes  Chancellor, 
Yitzliputzli  is  Secretary  of  State,  the  old  grandmother  gets  the 
colonies,  and  so  forth.  These  allies  then  carry  oa  business  according 
{.  )  their  own  evil  will,  but  as  their  own  interests  compel  them  to  take 

3? 


—    434  — 


good  care  of  the  world,  they  make  up  for  this  necessity,  by  always 
employing  the  vilest  means  to  bring  about  their  good  aims.  L  'y, 
they  carried  this  to  such  an  extent  that  God  in  Heaven  could  no 
longer  endure  their  rascality,  and  commissioned  an  angel  to  form  a 
new  ministry.  He,  of  course  gathered  about  him  all  the  good  spirits. 
A  pleasant  joyful  heat  again  ran  through  the  world,  there  was  light, 
and  the  evil  spirits  vanished.  But  they  did  not  quietly  fold  their 
claws  and  kick  their  hoofs  in  idleness — no,  they  went  to  work  in 
secret  against  all  that  was  good,  they  poisoned  the  new  springs  of 
health,  they  spitefully  snapped  every  rose-bud  of  the  fresh  spring, 
they  disturbed  the  tree  of  life  with  their  amendments,  a  chaotic 
destruction  threatened  everything,  and  the  blessed  Lord  will  have 
after  all  to  hand  things  ovar  to  the  Devil,  so  that  he,  even  by  employ- 
ing bad  means,  may  at  least  keep  things  together.  Just  see,  all  that 
is  the  evil  result  of  a  debt." 

This  theory  of  my  Bedlamite  friend  possibly  explains  the  present 
change  in  the  English  ministry.  The  friends  of  Canning  are  now 
subdued — those  friends,  whom  I  call  the  good  spirits  of  England,  be- 
cause their  opponents  are  devils,  and,  Avith  the  dumb  devil,  Welling- 
ton, at  their  head,  now  raise  their  cry  of  victory.  Let  no  one  scold 
poor  George — he  has  been  compelled  to  yield  to  circumstances.  No 
one  can  deny  that  after  Canning's  death  the  Whigs  were  no  longer 
in  condition  to  maintain  peace  in  England,  since  the  measures,  which 
they  were  in  consequence  obliged  to  adopt,  were  constantly  nullified 
by  the  Tories.  The  king,  to  whom  the  maintenance  of  public  tran- 
quillity— i.  c,  the  security  of  his  crown— seemed  the  principal  thing, 
was  therefore  obliged  to  transfer  the  government  to  the  Tories.  And 
oh!  they  will  now  again,  as  of  old,  govern  all  the  fruits  of  the  peo- 
ple's industry  into  their  own  pockets ;  like  reigning  corn-market  Jews, 
they  will  be  bulls  themselves,  and  raise  the  price  of  bread-stuffs, 
while  poor  John  Bull  becomes  lean  with  hunger,  and  finally  must  sell 
himself  with  body-service  to  the  high  gentlemen.  And  then  they 
will  yoke  him  to  the  plough,  and  lash  him,  and  he  will  not  so  much 
as  dare  to  low,  for  on  one  side  the  Puke  of  Wellington  will  threaten 
with  the  sword,  and  on  the  other  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  will 
bang  him  on  the  head  with  the  Bible — and  there  will  be  peace  in  the 
land. 

The  source  of  all  the  evil  is  the  debt,  the  "national  debt,"  or,  a* 
Cobbet  says,  "the  king's  debt."  Cobbet  remarks  on  this,  and  justly 
that  while  the  name  of  the  king  is  prefixed  to  all  institutes,  as  foi 
instance,  "the  king's  army,"  "the  king's  navy,"  "the  king's  courts,* 


—    435  — 

"the  king's  prisons,"  &c.,  the  debt,  which  really  sprang  from  these 
institutions,  is  never  called  the  king's  debt,  and  that  it  is  the  only 
case  in  which  the  nation  has  been  so  much  honored  as  to  have  any- 
thing called  after  it. 

The  greatest  evil  is  the  debt.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  it  upholds 
the  English  state,  and  that  so  firmly  that  the  worst  of  devils  cannot 
break  it  down;  but  it  has  also  resulted  in  making  of  all  England  one 
vast  tread-mill,  where  the  people  must  work  day  and  night  to  fatten 
their  creditors.  It  has  made  England  old  and  gray  with  the  cares 
of  payment,  and  banished  from  her  every  cheerful  and  youthful  feel- 
ing, and  finally — as  is  the  case  with  all  deeply  indebted  men — has 
bowed  the  country  down  into  the  most  abject  resignation — though 
nine  hundred  thousand  muskets,  and  as  many  sabres  and  bayonets, 
lie  in  the  Tower  of  London. 


THE  DEBT. 

When  I  was  a  boy,  there  were  three  things  which  especially  inte- 
rested me  in  the  newspapers.  I  first  of  all  was  accustomed  to  seek 
under  the  head,  "  Great  Britain,"  whether  Richard  Martin  had  not 
presented  a  fresh  petition  to  Parliament  for  the  more  humane  treat- 
ment of  poor  horses,  dogs  and  asses.  Then  under  "  Frankfort," 
I  looked  to  see  whether  Dr.  Schreiber  had  addressed  the  Diet  on  the 
subject  of  the  Grand-Ducal  purchasers  of  Hessian  domains.  Then 
I  at  once  attacked  "Turkey,"  and  read  through  the  long  Constanti- 
nople, merely  to  find  if  a  Grand  Vizier  had  not  been  honored  with 
the  silken  noose. 

This  last  subject  always  supplied  me  with  the  most  copious  food 
for  reflection.  That  a  despot  should  strangle  his  servants  without 
ceremony,  seemed  to  me  to  be  natural  enough ;  for  I  had  once  seen, 
in  a  menagerie,  how  the  king  of  beasts  fell  into  such  a  majestic  rage, 
that  he  would,  beyond  question,  have  torn  to  pieces  many  an  innocent 
spectator,  had  he  not  been  caged  in  a  secure  constitution  of  iron 
bars.  But  what  really  astonished  me  was,  that  after  the  strangula- 
tion of  the  old  Mr.  Grand  Vizier,  there  was  always  a  new  one  willing 
to  become  Grand  Vizier  in  turn. 

Now  that  I  am  older  grown,  and  busy  myself  more  with  the  Eng- 


—   436  — 


lish  than  with  their  friends,  the  Turks;  a  like  amazement  seizes  me, 
when  I  see  how,  after  the  resignation  of  a  prime-minister,  another 
at  once  forces  himself  into  his  place,  although  the  new  one  is  always 
a  man  who  has  wherewithal  to  live,  and  who  (with  the  exception  of 
Wellington)  is  anything  but  a  blockhead.  This  has  been  especially 
the  case  since  the  French  Revolution  ;  care  and  trouble  have  multi- 
plied themselves  in  Downing  Street,  and  the  burden  of  business  is 
well  nigh  unbearable. 

Affairs  of  state,  and  their  manifold  relations,  were  much  simpler 
in  the  olden  time,  when  reflecting  poets  compared  the  government  to 
a  ship,  and  the  minister  to  a  steersman.  Now,  however,  all  is  more 
complicated  and  entangled  ;  the  common  ship  of  state  has  become  a 
steamboat,  and  the  minister  no  longer  has  a  mere  helm  to  control, 
but  must,  as  responsible  engineer,  take  his  place  below,  amid  the 
immense  machinery,  and  anxiously  examine  every  little  iron  rivet, 
every  wheel  which  could  cause  a  stoppage — must  look  by  day  and  by- 
night  into  the  blazing  fire,  and  sweat  with  heat  and  vexation,  since, 
through  the  slightest  carelessness  on  his  part,  the  boiler  might  burst 
and  vessel  and  passengers  be  lost.  Meanwhile,  the  captain  and  pas- 
sengers walk  calmly  on  the  deck — as  calmly  flutters  the  flag  from  its 
staff ;  and  he  who  sees  the  boat  gliding  so  pleasantly  along,  never 
thinks  of  the  terrible  machinery,  or  of  the  care  and  trouble  hidden 
in  its  bowels. 

They  sink  down  to  early  graves,  those  poor,  responsible  engineers 
of  the  English  ship  of  state !  The  early  death  of  the  great  Pitt  is 
touching ;  still  more  so  that  of  the  yet  greater  Fox.  Percival 
would  have  died  of  the  usual  ministerial  malady,  had  he  not  been 
more  promptly  made  away  with  by  a  stab  from  a  dirk.  It  was  the 
ministerial  malady,  too,  wrhich  brought  Castlereagh  to  such  a  state 
of  desperation  that  he  cut  his  throat  at  North  Cray,  in  the  county 
of  Kent.  We  saw  the  god-like  Canning  poisoned  by  High-Tory 
slanders,  and  sink  like  a  sick  Atlas  under  his  wrorld-burden.  One 
after  the  other,  they  are  interred  in  Westminster,  those  poor  minis- 
ters, who  must  think  day  and  night  for  England's  kings,  while  the 
latter,  thoughtless  and  in  good  condition,  have  lived  along  to  the 
greatest  age  of  man. 

But  what  is  the  name  of  the  great  care,  which  preys  by  night  and 
by  day  on  the  brains  of  the  English  ministers,  and  kills  them?  It 
is — the  debt,  the  debt ! 

Debts,  like  patriotism,  religion,  honor,  &c,  belong  it  is  true  to  the 
special  distinctions  of  the  humanity — for  animals  do  not  contract 


—   437  — 

debts — but  they  are  also  a  special  torment  to  mankind,  and  as  they 
ruin  individuals,  so  do  they  also  bring  entire  races  to  destruction, 
and  appear  to  replace  the  old  destiny,  in  the  national  tragedies  of 
our  day.  And  Eugland  cannot  escape  this  destiny,  her  ministers  see 
the  dire  catastrophe  approach,  and  die  in  the  swoon  of  despair. 

Were  I  the  royal  Prussian  head  calculator,  or  a  member  of  the 
corps  of  geniuses,  then  would  I  reckon  in  the  usual  manner,  the 
entire  sum  of  the  English  debt  in  silver  groschen,  and  tell  you  pre- 
cisely, how  many  times  we  could  cover  with  them,  the  great  Frederic 
street  or  the  entire  earth.  But  figures  were  never  ray  forte,  and  I 
had  rather  leave  to  an  Englishman,  the  desperate  business  of  counting 
his  debts,  and  of  calculating  from  them,  the  resulting  ministerial 
crisis.  For  this  business,  no  one  is  better  than  old  (Jobbet,  and  I 
accordingly  communicate  the  following  conclusions,  from  the  last, 
number  of  his  Register. 

*  "  The  condition  of  things,  is  as  follows  : 

1.  — "This  government,  or  rather  this  aristocracy  and  church;  but 
if  you  will  have  it  so,  this  government,  borrowed  a  large  sum  of 
money,  for  which  it  has  purchased  many  victories,  both  by  land  and 
sea — a  mass  of  victories  of  every  sort  and  size. 

2.  — "I  must  however  remark  by  the  way,  on  what  occasions,  and 
for  what  purposes,  these  victories  were  bought;  the  occasion  was 
that  of  the  French  revolution,  which  destroyed  all  aristocratic 
privileges  and  clerical  tithes  ;  while  the  object,  was  the  prevention  of 
a  parliamentary  reform  in  Eugland,  which  would  probably  have  had 
as  its  consequence,  a  similar  destruction  of  all  aristocratic  privileges 
and  clerical  tithes. 

3.  — "To  prevent  the  example  set  by  the  French,  from  being  fol- 
lowed by  the  English,  it  was  necessary  to  attack  the  French,  to 
impede  their  progress,  to  render  dangerous  their  newly  obtained 
freedom,  to  drive  them  to  desperate  acts,  and  finally,  to  make  such  a 
scare-crow  and  bug-bear  of  the  revolution,  to  the  people  that  the  very 
name  of  liberty  should  suggest  nothing  but  an  aggregate  of  wicked- 
ness, cruelty  and  blood,  while  the  English  people  in  the  excitement 

*  I  have  preferred,  for  reasons  which  will  be  intelligible  to  those  who  are  desirous  of 
closely  following  Heine's  conceptions,  to  give  an  accurate  version  of  his  translation, 
rather  than  the  original.  The  point  in  question  is  not  Cobbet,  but  Cobbet  as  Heine 
understood  him.  To  use  Cobbet's  own  words  in  reference  to  one  of  his  own  versions  as 
given  in  the  very  Register  referred  to,  I  can  say  with  truth  that  "as  to  the  translation, 
it  was  origiii  illy  done  at  Philadelphia."  though  I  trust  it  will  not  be  found  as  Cobhet 
admits  of  himself,  that  "  the  translator  has  made  some  addition  to  the  authorities 
referred  to."  — [Xote  by  Translator.] 


—    438  — 


of  their  terror,  should  go  so  far,  as  to  fairly  fall  in  love  with  the  same 
despotic  government  which  once  flourished  in  France,  and  which 
every  Englishman  has  abhorred  from  the  days  of  Alfred  the  Great 
down  to  those  of  George  the  Third. 

4.  — "To  execute  these  intentions,  the  aid  of  divers  foreign  nations 
was  needed,  and  these  nations  were  consequently  subsidized  with 
English  gold  ;  French  emigrants  were  sustained  with  English  money ; 
in  short,  a  war  of  twenty-two  years  was  carried  on,  to  subdue  that 
people  which  had  risen  up  against  aristocratic  privileges  and  clerical 
tithes. 

5.  — "Our  government  therefore,  gained  'numberless  victories' 
over  the  French,  who,  as  it  seems  were  always  conquered ;  but  these, 
our  numberless  victories,  were  bought,  that  is  to  say,  they  were 
fought  by  mercenaries,  whom  we  hired  for  this  purpose,  and  we  had 
in  uur  pay  at  one  and  the  same  time,  whole  swarms  of  Frenchmen, 
Dutchmen,  Swiss,  Italians,  Russians,  Austriaus,  Bavarians,  Hessians, 
Hanoverians,  Prussians,  Spaniards,  Portuguese,  Neapolitans,  Maltese, 
and  God  knows  how  many  nations  besides. 

6.  — "  By  thus  seeking  foreign  service,  and  by  using  our  own  fleet 
and  armies,  we  bought  so  many  victories  over  the  French,  (the  poor 
devils  being  without  money  to  do  business  in  like  manner,)  that  we 
finally  subdued  their  revolution,  and  restored  their  aristocracy  to  a 
certain  degree,  although  all  that  could  be  done,  was  of  no  avail  to 
restore  the  clerical  tithes. 

7.  — "After  we  had  successfully  finished  this  great  task,  and  had 
also  by  means  of  it,  put  down  every  Parliamentary  reform  in  Eng- 
land ;  our  government  raised  a  roar  o£  victory  which  strained  their 
lungs  not  a  little,  and  which  was  sustained  as  loudly  as  possible,  by 
every  creature  in  this  country,  who  in  one  way  or  another,  lived  by 
public  taxes. 

8.  — "This  excessive  intoxication  of  delight,  lasted  nearly  two  years 
in  this  once  so  happy  nation ;  to  celebrate  our  victories,  they  heaped 
together  public  feasts,  theatrical  shows,  arches  of  triumph,  mock 
battles,  and  similar  pleasures,  which  cost  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
million  pounds  sterling,  and  the  House  of  Commons,  unanimously 
voted  a  vast  sum,  (I  believe  three  million  pounds  sterling)  to  erect 
triumphal  arches,  and  other  monuments  to  commemorate  the  glorious 
events  of  the  war. 

9.  — "  Since  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  we  have  constantly  had  the 
fortune  to  live  under  the  government  of  the  same  persons  who  con- 
ducted our  affairs  during  the  aforesaid  glorious  war. 


—   439  — 

10.  — "  Since  that  time  we  have  been  at  profound  peace  with  all  the 
world;  we  may  indeed  assume  that  such  is  still  the  case,  despite  our 
little  difficulty  with  the  Turks  ;  and  therefore  one  might  suppose  that 
there  is  no  reason  in  the  world,  why  we  should  not  now  be  happy  :  we 
are  at  peace,  our  soil  brings  forth  its  fruits  abundantly,  and  as  the 
philosophers  and  lawgivers  of  our  time  declare,  we  are  the  most  en- 
lightened nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  We  really  have  schools 
everywhere,  to  instruct  the  rising  generation ;  we  have  not  merely  a 
rector,  or  vicar,  or  curate  in  every  diocese  in  the  kingdom,  but  we 
also  have  in  each  of  these  dioceses,  perhaps  six  more  teachers  of 
religion,  of  which  each  is  of  a  different  kind  from  his  four  colleagues, 
so  that  our  country  is  abundantly  supplied  with  instruction  of  every 
kind,  in  order  that  no  human  being  of  all  this  happy  land  shall  live 
in  ignorance — and  consequently  our  astonishment  must  be  all  the 
greater  that  any  one  who  will  become  Prime  Minister  of  this  happy 
land,  should  regard  the  office  as  such  a  heavy  and  painful  burden. 

11.  — "Alas!  we  have  one  misfortune,  and  it  is  a  real  misfortune, 
viz.,  we  have  bought  several  victories — they  were  splendid  and  we 
got  them  at  a  bargain — they  were  worth  three  or  four  times  as  much 
as  we  gave  for  them,  as  Lady  Teazle  says  to  her  husband,  when  she 
comes  home  from  buying — there  was  much  inquiry  and  a  great 
demand  for  victories ;  in  short  we  could  have  done  nothing  more 
reasonable  than  to  supply  ourselves  at  such  cheap  rates  with  so 
great  a  quantity  of  reputation. 

12.  — "  But,  I  confess  it  with  a  heavy  heart,  we  have,  like  many 
other  people,  borrowed  the  money  with  which  we  bought  these  vic- 
tories as  we  wanted  them,  and  now  we  can  no  more  get  rid  of  the 
debt  than  a  man  can  of  his  wife,  when  he  has  once  had  the  good  luck 
to  load  himself  with  the  lovely  gift. 

13.  — "  Hence  it  comes  that  every  minister  who  undertakes  our 
affairs,  must  also  undertake  the  payment  of  our  victories,  not  a 
fartlr.ng  of  which  has  as  yet  been  counted  off. 

14.  — It  is  true  that  he  is  not  obliged  to  see  that  the  whole  sum 
which  we  borrowed  to  pay  for  our  victories,  is  paid  down  in  the  lump, 
capital  and  interest;  but  he  must  see — more's  the  pity! — to  the 
regular  payment  of  the  interest;  and  this  interest,  reckoned  up  with 
the  pay  of  the  army,  and  other  expenses  coming  from  our  victories, 
is  so  significant  that  a  man  must  have  pretty  strong  nerves  if  he  will 
undertake  the  business  of  paying  them. 

15.  — "  At  an  earlier  date,  before  we  took  to  buying  victories  and 
supplying  ourselves  too  freely  with  glory,  we  already  had  a  debt  of 


—   440  — 

rather  more  than  two  hundred  million?,  while  all  the  poor  rates  in 
England  and  Wales  together  did  not  annually  amount  to  more  than 
two  millions,  which  was  before  we  had  any  of  that  burden  which 
under  the  name  of  dead  weight  is  now  piled  upou  us,  and  which  is 
entirely  the  result  of  our  thirst  for  glory. 

16.  — "  In  addition  to  this  money  which  was  borrowed  from  credi- 
tors who  cheerfully  lent  it,  our  government  in  its  thirst  for  victories, 
also  indirectly  raised  a  great  loan  from  the  poor ;  that  is  to  say,  they 
raised  the  usual  taxes  to  such  a  height,  that  the  poor  were  far  more 
oppressed  than  ever,  and  so  that  the  amount  of  poor  and  of  poor 
rates  increased  incredibly. 

17.  — "  The  poor  taxes  annually  increase  from  two  to  eight  millions  ; 
the  poor  have  therefore,  as  it  were,  a  mortgage  or  hypotheca  on  the 
land,  and  this  causes  again  a  debt  of  six  millions,  which  must  be 
added  to  those  other  debts  caused  by  our  passion  for  glory  and  by 
the  purchase  of  our  victories. 

18.  — f*  The  dead  weight  consists  of  annuities,  which  we  pay,  under 
the  name  of  pensions,  to  a  multitude  of  men,  women  and  children,  as 
a  reward  for  the  services  which  those  men  have  rendered,  or  should 
have  rendered,  in  gaining  our  victories. 

19.  — l>  The  capital  of  the  debt  which  this  government  has  con- 
tracted in  getting  its  victories  consists  of  about  the  following  sums: 

Pounds  Sterlixq. 

Sums  added  to  the  National  Debt,   800,000,000 

Sums  added  to  the  actual  debt  for  poor-rates,  -  -  -  150,000X00 
Dead  weight,  reckoned  as  capital  of  a  debt,   ....      -  175,000,000 

£1,125,000,000 

That  is  to  say,  eleven  hundred  and  twenty-five  millions,  at  rrve  per 
cent.,  is  the  sum  total  of  those  annual  fifty-six  millions;  yes,  this  is 
about  the  present  total,  only  that  the  Poor-rates  Debt  is  not  included 
in  the  accounts  which  were  laid  before  Parliament,  since  the  country 
pays  them  at  once  into  the  different  parishes.  If  any  one,  therefore, 
will  subtract  that  six  millions  from  the  forty-six  millions,  it  follows 
that  the  creditors  holding  the  State  Debt,  and  the  dead  weight  peo- 
ple, really  swallow  up  all  the  rest. 

20.  — "  The  Poor-rates  are,  however,  just  as  much  a  debt  as  the 
debt  held  by  the  state's  creditors,  and  apparently  sprang  from  the 
same  source.  The  poor  are  crushed  to  the  earth  by  the  terrible  load 
of  taxes;  every  other  person  has  borne,  of  course,  some  of  the  bur- 
den, but  all,  except  the  poor,  contrived  to  shift  it  more  or  less  from 
their  shoulders,  until  it  finally  fell  with  a  fearful  weight  entirely  on 


—  4M  — 

the  latter,*  and  they  lost  their  beer-barrels,  their  copper  kettles,  their 
pewter  plates,  their  clocks,  their  beds,  and  even  the  tools  of  their 
trades  ;  they  lost  their  clothes,  and  were  obliged  to  dress  in  rags — 
yes,  they  lost  the  very  flesh  from  their  bones.  It  was  impossible  to 
go  further;  and  of  that  which  had  been  taken  from  them,  something 
was  restored  under  the  name  of  increased  Poor-rates.  These  are,  in 
consequence,  a  real  debt — a  real  mortgage  on  the  land.  The  interesl 
of  this  debt  may,  it  is  true,  be  withheld  ;  but  were  this  done,  the  peo- 
ple, who  have  a  right  to  require  it,  would  rise  in  a  body  and  demand, 
no  matter  how,  payment  of  the  whole  amount.  This  is  consequently 
a  real  debt,  and  a  debt  which  must  be  paid  to  the  uttermost  farthing, 
and,  as  I  distinctly  declare,  preference  will  be  demanded  for  it  before 
all  other  debts. 

21.  — "It  is  therefore  unnecessary  to  wonder  at  the  hard  case  of 
those  who  undertake  such  duties !  It  would  be  rather  a  matter 
of  astonishment  if  any  one  would  attempt  such  a  task,  were  it  not 
left  to  his  free  will  to  also  undertake,  as  he  pleased,  a  radical  change 
in  the  whole  system. 

22.  — "  Here  there  is  no  possibility  of  relief,  should  one  undertake 
to  lower  the  annual  expenditure  of  the  state  creditors'  debt,  and  of 
the  dead  weight  debt,  and  to  expect  such  a  diminution  of  the  debt, 
or  such  a  reduction  from  the  country,  or  to  hinder  its  causing  great 
commotion,  or  to  prevent  half  a  million  human  beings,  in  or  about 
London,  from  perishing  of  hunger,  it  is  necessary  that  far  more 
appropriate  and  proportional  reductions  be  made  in  other  directions, 
before  the  reduction  of  those  two  debts,  or  their  interest,  be  attempted. 

23.  — "  As  we  have  already  seen,  these  victories  were  purchased 
with  the  view  of  preventing  a  reform  of  Parliament  in  England,  and 
to  maintain  aristocratic  privileges  and  clerical  tithes,  and  it  would  be, 
in  consequence,  a  deed  of  cruelty  which  would  cry  aloud  to  Heaven, 
should  we  take  their  lawful  dues  from  those  persons  who  lent  us  the 
money,  or  if  we  withdrew  payment  from  the  people  who  hired  us  the 
hands  with  which  we  won  the  victories.  It  would  be  a  deed  of  cruelty 
which  would  bring  down  the  vengeance  of  God  on  us,  should  we  com- 
mit such  things,  while  the  profitable  posts  of  honor  of  the  aristocracy, 

*  This  simile  forcibly  recalls  n  common  newspaper  paragraph,  to  the  following  effect: 
"  The  Revenue  is  the  great  subject  which  interests  England,  and  especially  wheu  asso- 
ciated with  the  present  National  Debt.  Not  long  ago,  an  Englishman  observed  a  stone 
roll  duwn  a  staircase.  It  bumped  on  every  stair  till  it  came  to  the  bottom :  there  of  course 
it  rested.  "That  stone,"  said  he  "resembles  the  National  Debt  of  my  country:  it  has 
bumped  on  every  grade  of  the  community,  but  its  weight  is  on  tbv;  lowest." 

[Xotc  by  Translator. 


—    U2  — 

their  pensions,  sinecures,  royal  gifts,  military  rewards,  and  finally,  the 
tithes  of  the  clergy,  remained  untouched  ! 

24. — "  Here — here,  therefore,  lies  the  difficulty :  he  who  becomes 
minister  must  be  minister  of  a  country  which  has  a  great  passion  for 
victories,  which  is  sufficiently  supplied  with  them,  and  has  obtained 
incomparable  military  glory ;  but  which — more's  the  pity — has  not 
yet  paid  for  these  spleudid  things,  and  which  now  leaves  it  to  the 
Minister  to  settle  the  bill,  without  his  knowing  where  he  is  to  get  the 
money." 

These  be  things  which  bear  down  a  Minister  to  his  grave,  or  at 
least  make  of  him  a  madman.  England  owes  more  than  she  can  pay. 
Let  no  one  boast  that  she  possesses  Iudia,  and  rich  colonies.  As  it 
appears  from  the  last  Parliamentary  debates,  England  does  not  draw 
a  single  farthing  of  income  from  her  vast,  immeasurable  India— nay, 
she  must  pay  thither  several  millions  from  her  owu  resources.  This 
country  only  benefits  England  by  the  fact  that  certain  Britons,  who 
there  grow  rich,  aid  the  industry  and  the  circulation  of  money  at 
home  by  their  wealth,  while  a  thousand  others  gain  their  bread  from 
the  East  India  Company.  The  colonies,  therefore,  yield  no  income 
to  the  state,  require  supplies,  and  are  of  service  simply  to  commerce,* 
and  to  enrich  an  aristocracy,  whose  younger  sons  and  nephews  are 
sent  thither  as  governors  and  subordinate  officials.  The  payment 
of  the  National  Debt  falls  consequently  altogether  upon  Great  Bri- 
tain and  Ireland.  But  here,  too,  the  resources  are  not  so  great  as 
the  debt  itself.    Let  us  hear  what  Cobbet  says  of  this : 

"  There  are  people  who,  to  suggest  some  sort  of  relief,  speak  of  the 
resources  of  the  country.  These  are  the  scholars  of  the  late  Col- 
quhoun,  a  thief-catcher,  who  wrote  a  great  book  to  prove  that  our 
debt  need  not  trouble  us  in  the  least,  since  it  is  so  small  in  proportion 
to  the  resources  of  the  nation  ;  and,  in  order  that  his  shrewd  reader 
may  get  an  accurate  idea  of  the  vastness  of  these  resources,  he  makes 
an  estimate  of  all  that  the  land  contains,  dowu  to  the  very  rabbits, 
aud  really  seems  to  regret  that  he  could  not,  in  addition  to  them, 
reckon  up  the  rats  and  mice.  He  makes  his  estimate  of  the  value 
of  the  horses,  cows,  sheep,  sucking-pigs,  poultry,  game,  rabbits,  fish, 
the  value  of  household  stuff,  clothes,  fuel,  sugar,  groceries — in  short, 
of  everything  in  the  country  ;  and  after  he  has  assumed  the  whole 
and  added  to  them  the  value  of  the  farms,  trees,  houses,  mines — the 
yield  of  the  grass,  corn,  turnips  and  flax — and  brought  out  of  it  a 

*  Simp]}-  to  commerce: — [Note  by  Translator. 


—   4±3  — 

sum  of  God  knows  how  many  thousand  millions,  he  struts  and  sneers 
in  his  sly,  bragging,  Scotch  fashion — something  like  a  turkey-cock — 
and  laughing  with  scorn,  asks  people  like  me,  '  How,  with  resources 
like  these,  can  you  fear  a  national  bankruptcy  V 

"  The  man  never  reflects  that  all  the  houses  are  wanted  to  live  in, 
the  farms,  to  yield  fodder,  the  clothes  to  cover  our  nakedness,  the 
cows,  to  give  milk  to  quench  thirst,  the  horned  cattle,  sheep,  swine, 
poultry  and  rabbits,  to  eat;  yes — the  devil  take  the  contrary  obsti- 
nate Scotchman  ! — these  things  are  not  where  they  are  to  be  sold  so 
that  people  can  pay  the  National  Debt  with  the  proceeds.  In  fact  he 
has  actually  reckoned  up  the  daily  wages  of  the  workingmen  among 
the  resources  of  the  nation !  This  stupid  devil  of  a  thief-catcher 
whose  brethren  in  Scotland  made  a  doctor  of  him  because  he  wrote 
such  an  excellent  book,  seems  to  have  altogether  forgotten  that 
laborers  want  their  daily  hire  themselves,  to  buy  with  it  something 
to  eat  and  drink,  He  might  as  well  have  set  a  value  upon  the  blood 
in  our  veins  as  if  it  were  stuff  to  make  blood-puddings  of!" 

So  far  Cobbet.  While  I  translate  his  words  into  German,  he 
bursts  forth,  as  if  in  person,  in  my  memory,  as  he  appeared  during 
last  year  at  the  noisy  dinner  in  the  Crown  and  Anchor  tavern.  I 
see  him  again  with  his  scolding  red  face,  and  his  radical  laugh  in 
which  the  most  venomous  deathly  hatred  combined  terribly  with  the 
scornful  joy  which  sees  beforehand  in  all  certainty  the  downfall  of 
his  enemies. 

Let  no  one  blame  me  for  quoting  Gobbet  !  Accuse  him  as  much 
as  you  please  of  unfairness,  of  a  passion  for  reviling  and  of  an 
altogether  too  vulgar  personality,  but  no  one  can  deny  that  he 
possesses  much  eloquence  of  spirit,  and  that  he  very  often,  as  in  the 
above  assertions,  is  in  the  right.  lie  is  a  chained  dog,*  who  attacks 
at  once  in  a  rage  every  one  whom  he  does  not  know,  who  often  bites 
the  best  friends  of  the  family  in  the  legs,  who  always  barks,  and  who 
on  that  account  is  not  minded  even  when  he  barks  at  a  real  thief. 
Therefore  the  aristocratic  thieves  who  plunder  England  do  not 
regard  it  as  necessary  to  cast  the  snarling  Cobbet  a  crust  and  so 
stop  his  mouth.  This  aggravates  him  most  bitterly  and  he  shows 
his  hungry  teeth. 

♦This  comparison  of  Cobbet  to  a  bull-dog,  "the  dog  of  England"  must  strike  the 
reader  as  particularly  felintous.  Corbet  indeed  appears  to  have  entertained  a  remark- 
able affection  for  the  animal  in  question.  In  speaking  of  abolishing  the  baiting  of  bulla 
with  dogs,  he  bursts  forth  against  the  abolition  of  "  that  ancient,  hardy  and  anti-puri- 
tanical sport  and  of  extirpating  a  race  of  animals  which  are  peculiar  to  this  island, 
peculiarly  characteristic  of  its  people."    Tide  Cobbet's  Register.   May  22  to  May  29, 1802 

[Note  by  IVanslator. 


Old  Cobbet!  dog  of  England!  I  do  not  love  you,  for  every 
vulgar  nature  is  hateful  to  me,  but  I  pity  you  from  my  deepest  soul, 
when  I  see  that  you  cannot  break  loose  from  your  chain,  nor  reach 
those  thieves,  who,  laughing  slip  away  their  plunder  before  your  eyes, 
and  mock  your  fruitless  leaps  and  unavailing  howls. 


8. 

THE  OPPOSITION  PARTY. 

A  friend  of  mine  has  very  aptly  compared  the  opposition  in  Par- 
liament to  an  opposition  coach.  Every  one  knows  that  this  is  a 
public  stage-coach,  which  some  speculating  company  start  at  their 
own  expense,  and  run  at  such  low  rates,  that  the  travellers  give  it 
the  preference  over  the  already  established  line.  The  latter  must 
also  put  down  their  prices  to  1veep  passengers,  but  are  soon  outbid, 
or  rather  underbid  by  the  new  opposition  coach,  ruin  themselves  by 
the  competition,  and  are  obliged  eventually  to  give  up  the  business. 
If  the  opposition  coach  has  at  last  and  after  this  fashion  gained  the 
da}*,  and  finds  itself  the  only  one  on  a  certain  route,  it  at  once  puts 
up  the  prices,  often  higher  than  those  of  the  old  coach,  and  the  poor 
passengers,  far  from  gaining  often  lose  by  the  change,  and  must  curse 
and  pay  until  a  new  opposition  coach  renews  the  old  game,  and  then 
new  hopes  and  new  deceptions  follow  in  turn. 

How  full  of  blood  and  pride  were  the  Whigs  when  the  Stuait 
party  were  defeated,  and  the  Protestant  dynasty  ascended  the  Eng- 
lish throne !  The  Tories  then  formed  the  opposition  and  John  Bull, 
the  poor  state  passenger,  had  good  cause  to  roar  with  joy  when  they 
got  the  upper  hand.  But  his  joy  was  of  short  duration,  he  was 
annually  obliged  to  pay  a  higher  and  still  higher  fare,  there  was  dear 
paying  and  bad  riding,  more  than  that,  the  coachmen  were  very  rude, 
there  was  nothing  but  jolting  and  bumping,  every  corner-stone 
threatened  an  upset,  and  poor  John  Bull  thanked  the  Lord  his 
maker,  when  at  last  the  reins  of  the  state-coach  were  held  by  other 
and  better  hands. 

Unfortunately  the  joy  did  not  last  long  this  time  either,  the  new 
opposition  coachmen  fell  dead  from  the  coach-box,  others  got  off 
cautiously  when  the  horses  became  restive,  and  the  old  drivers,  the 


—    445  — 


old  courtly  riders  with  golden  spurs  again  took  their  old  places,  and 
cracked  away  with  the  old  whips. 

I  will  not  run  this  figure  of  speech  to  the  ground,  and  I  therefore 
turn  again  to  the  words  "Whigs"  and  "Tories,"  which  I  have 
already  used  to  indicate  the  two  opposition  parties,  and  a  discussion 
of  the  names  will  be  all  the  better,  since  they  have  for  a  long  time 
been  a  source  of  confusion  of  ideas. 

As  the  names  of  Ghibellines  and  Guelfs  acquired  by  mutations  and 
new  events,  during  the  middle  ages,  the  vaguest  and  most  opposite 
significations,  so  also  at  a  later  date  in  England  did  those  of  Whigs 
and  Tories,  the  origin  of  which  is  at  present  scarcely  known.  Some 
assert  that  they  were  formerly  abusive  terms  which  eventually  became 
honest  party  names,  which  often  happens,  as  for  instance  when  a 
party  in  Holland  baptised  themselves  "beggars"  from  les  gueux,  as 
at  a  latter  date  the  Jacobins  often  called  themselves  sans  culottes, 
and  as  perhaps  the  serviles  and  dark-lantern  folks  of  our  own  time 
will  perhaps,  at  some  future  day,  bear  these  names  as  glorious 
epithets  of  honor — a  thing  which,  it  must  be  admitted  they  cannot 
now  do.  The  word  Whig  is  said  to  have  signified  in  Ireland  some- 
thing disagreeably  sour,*  and  was  there  used  to  ridicule  the  Presby- 
terians or  new  sects  in  general.  The  word  Tory  which  was  used 
about  the  same  time  as  a  party  name,  signified  in  Ireland  a  sort  of 
scabby  thieves.  Both  nicknames  became  general  in  the  time  of  tne 
Stuarts,  and  during  the  disputes  between  the  sects  and  the  dominant 
church. 

The  general  view  is,  that  the  Tories  incline  altogether  to  the  side 
of  the  throne,  and  fight  for  the  crown's  privileges  ;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  Whigs  lean  towards  the  people,  and  protect  their  rights. 
These  explanations  are,  however,  vague,  and  are  rather  bookish  than 
practical.  The  terms  may  be  regarded  rather  as  coterie  names.  They 
indicate  men  who  cling  together  on  certain  opposing  questions,  whose 
predecessors  and  Mends  held  together  on  the 'same  grounds,  and  who 
through  political  storms,  bore  in  common  their  joys,  sorrows,  and  the 
enmity  of  the  opposite  party.  Principles  never  enter  into  considera- 
tion ;  they  do  not  unite  on  certain  ideas,  but  on  certain  rules  of  state 
government — on  the  abolition  or- maintenance  of  certain  abuses — on 
certain  bills,  certain  hereditary  questions, — no  matter  from  what  point 
of  view,  generally  from  mere  custom.    The  English  do  not  however 

*  Sauertopfisch.  This  word  as  used  by  Heine  signifies  sour  or  crabbed,  but  its  com- 
ponent parts  of  sauer  or  sour,  and  Topf,  a  pot  or  pipkin,  seem  to  refer  with  peculiar 
aptness  to  the  culinary  meaning  of  "  Whig"— i.  e.,  a  sort  of  sour  whey. 

38 


—   Uß  — 

let  themselves  be  led  astray  by  these  party  names.  When  they  speak 
of  Whigs,  they  do  not  form  in  so  doing  a  definite  idea,  as  we  do  in 
speaking  of  Liberals,  when  we  at  once  bring  before  us  men  who  are, 
from  their  very  souls,  sincere  as  to  certain  privileges  of  freedom — 
but  they  think  of  an  external  union  of  people,  of  whom  each  one, 
judged  by  his  private  manner  of  thought,  would  form  a  party  by  him- 
self, and  who,  as  I  have  already  said,  fight  against  the  Tories  through 
the  impulse  of  extraneous  causes,  accidental  interests,  and  the  asso- 
ciations of  enmity  or  friendship.  In  such  a  state  as  this,  we  cannot 
imagine  a  strife  against  aristocracy  in  our  sense  of  the  term,  since 
the  Tories  are  really  not  more  aristocratic  than  the  Whigs,  and  often 
even  not  more  so  than  the  bourgeoisie,  or  middle-class,  themselves, 
who  regard  the  aristocracy  as  something  unchangeable  as  the  sun, 
moon  and  stars — who  see  in  the  privileges  of  the  nobility  and  clergy 
that  which  is  not  merely  profitable  to  the  state,  but  is  actually  a 
necessity  of  nature,  and  who  would  perhaps  fight  for  these  privileges 
with  far  more  zeal  than  the  aristocrats  themselves,  since  they  believe 
more  implicitly  in  them,  while  the  latter  have  very  generally  lost  their 
faith.  In  this  point  of  view,  we  must  admit  that  the  spirit  of  the 
English  is  still  over-clouded  by  the  night  of  the  Middle  Ages — the 
holy  idea  of  a  citizen-like  equality  has  not,  as  yet,  enlightened  them  ; 
and  many  a  citizen-statesman  in  England,  who  has  Tory  tendencies, 
ought  not,  by  any  means,  to  be  regarded  as  servile,  or  be  counted 
among  those  servile  hounds  who  could  be  free,  and  still  creep  back 
into  their  old  kennel  and  bay  the  sun  of  freedom. 

The  names  of  Whig  and  Tory  are  consequently  utterly  useless,  so 
far  as  comprehending  the  British  opposition  is  concerned,  and  Fran- 
cis Burdett,  at  the  beginning  of  the  session  of  last  year,  very  cor- 
rectly declared  that  these  names  have  now  lost  all  their  significance. 
On  this  remark,  Thomas  Lethbridge,  a  man  whom  the  Lord  has  not 
endowed  with  too  much  wit,  made  a  very  good  joke — perhaps  the 
only  one  of  his  life — which  was  as  follows:  "He.  has  un-toried  the 
;   Tories  and  un-wigged  the  Whigs." 

Far  more  significant  are  the  names,  "  reformers,"  or  "  ra.dical 
reformers,"  or,  in  short,  "radicals."  They  are  generally  regarded  as 
oue  and  the  same,  and  they  aim  at  the  same  defects  in  the  State  and 
suggest  the  same  remedies,  differing  only  in  the  moderation  or  inten- 
sity of  their  views.  The  defect  alluded  to  is  the  well-known  evil 
manner  of  popular  representation,  by  which  the  so-called  rotten- 
boroughs — obsolete,  uninhabited  places — or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
the  oligarchs  to  whom  they  belong,  have  the  right  to  send  representa- 


—   447  — 


tives  for  the  people  to  Parliament,  while  great  and  populous  cities, 
among  them  many  manufacturing  towns,  have  not  a  single  repre- 
sentative. The  wholesome  cure  of  this  defect  is  naturally  in  the  so- 
called  Parliamentary  Reform.  This,  of  course,  is  not  regarded  as  an 
ultimate  aim,  but  as  a  means.  It  is  hoped  that  by  it  the  people  will 
attain  a  better  representation  of  its  interests,  and  the  abolition  of  aris- 
tocratic abuses,  and  help  in  their  affliction.  As  may  be  supposed,  the 
Reform — this  just  and  moderate  demand— has  its  champions  among 
moderate  men,  who  are  anything  but  Jacobins  ;  and  when  they  are 
called  reformers,  it  has  a  meaning  differing,  as  widely  as  earth  from 
heaven,  from  that  of  radicals,  which  is  pronounced  in  an  altogether 
different  tone — as  for  instance,  when  Hunt  or  Cobbet  is  mentioned, 
or  any  of  the  impulsive,  raging,  revolutionary  men,  who  cry  for  Par- 
liamentary reform  that  they  may  bring  about  the  overthrow  of  all 
forms,  the  victory  of  avarice,  and  complete  mob-rule.  The  shades  in 
the  coryphaei  of  these  parties  are  consequently  innumerable.  But, 
as  before  said,  the  English  know  their  men  very  well ;  names  do  not 
deceive  the  public,  and  the  latter  decides,  with  great  accuracy,  where 
the  battle  is  in  earnest  and  where  it  is  mere  show.  Often,  for  years 
together,  the  strife  in  Parliament  is  little  more  than  an  idle  game, 
a  tournament,  where  the  champions  contend  for  a  color  chosen  for  a 
freak;  but  when  there  is  a  real  strife,  we  see  them  all  hasten,  each 
man  to  the  flag  of  his  natural  party.  This  we  saw  in  the  days  of 
Canning.  The  mosj;  passionate  opponents  united  when  it  came  to  a 
war  of  positive  interests :  Tories,  Whigs  and  Radicals  formed  a 
phalanx  around  the  bold  citizen-minister,  who  sought  to  diminish  the 
pride  of  the  oligarchy.  But  I  still  believe  that  many  a  high-born 
Whig,  who  sat  proudly  behind  Canning,  would  have  wheeled  right 
about  face  to  the  old  fox-hunting  order,  had  the  question  of  abolish- 
ing all  the  privileges  of  the  nobility  been  suddenly  agitated.  T  believe 
(God  forgive  me  the  sin  !)  that  Francis  Burdett  himself,  who  during 
his  youth  was  one  of  the  hottest  radicals,  and  is  not  as  yet  classed 
among  the  moderate  reformers,  would,  in  such  a  case,  have  very 
quickly  have  seated  himself  by  Sir  Thomas  Lethbridge.  The  ple- 
beian radicals  are  perfectly  aware  of  this,  and  they  hate,  therefore, 
the  so-called  Whigs,  who  advocate  Parliamentary  reform  —  yes, 
almost  more  than  the  utterly  hostile  high  Tories. 

At  present  the  English  opposition  consists  more  of  actual  reform- 
ers than  of  Whigs.  The  leader  of  the  opposition  in  the  Lower 
House  belongs  unquestionably  to  the  latter.   I  allude  to  Brougham. 

We  daily  read,  in  the  papers,  the  reports  of  the  speeches  of  this 


—    448  — 

bold  hero  of  Parliament.  The  personal  peculiarities  which  are  mani- 
fested in  the  delivery  of  these  speeches  are  not  so  well  known,  and 
yet  we  must  know  them  to  duly  appreciate  the  latter.  The  sketch 
which  an  intelligent  Englishman  has  made  of  Brougham's  appear- 
ance in  Parliament,  may  be  appropriately  given  here  : 

"  On  the  first  bench,  at  the  left  side  of  the  Speaker,  sits  a  figure, 
which  appears  to  have  cowered  so  long  by  the  study-lamp,  that  not 
only  the  bloom  of  life,  but  even  life's  strength,  seem  to  have  begun 
to  exhaust  themselves  ;  and  yet  it  is  this  apparently  helpless  form 
which  attracts  every  eye  in  the  house,  and  which,  as  it  rises  in  a 
mechanical,  automatic  manner,  excites  all  the  reporters  behind  us 
into  rapid  movement,  while  every  corner  of  the  gallery  is  filled  as 
though  it  were  a  massy  stone  vault,  and  the  mob  of  men  without 
presses  in  through  both  the  side-doors.  In  the  House  below,  an 
equal  interest  seems  to  manifest  itself,  for,  as  that  form  slowly  unfolds 
itself  in  a  vertical  curve,  or  rather  into  a  vertical  zig-zag  of  stiff 
lines  joined  together,  the  two  zealots  on  either  side,  who  just  before 
sought  in  crying  out  to  check  each  other,  have  suddenly  sunk  back 
into  their  places,  as  though  they  had  espied  an  air-gun  hidden  under 
the  Speaker's  robe. 

"  After  this  bustle  of  preparation  and  during  the  breathless  still- 
ness which  follows,  Henry  Brougham  has  slowly  and  with  thought- 
ful step,  approached  the  table  and  there  stands  bent  together — his 
shoulders  elevated,  his  head  inclined  forward,  his  upper  lip  and 
nostrils  quivering,  as  though  he  feared  to  utter  a  word.  His  external 
appearance,  his  manner,  almost  resembles  that  of  one  of  those 
preachers  who  hold  forth  in  the  open  air — not  a  modern  man  of  the 
kind  who  attracts  the  indolent  crowd  on  Sunday — but  one  of  those 
preachers  of  the  olden  time,  who  sought  to  uphold  purity  of  faith 
and  to  spread  it  forth  in  the  wilderness,  when  it  was  banished  from 
the  city  and  even  from  the  church.  The  tones  of  his  voice  are  full 
and  melodious,  but  they  rise  slowly,  thoughtfully,  and  as  we  are 
tempted  to  believe,  even  with  difficulty,  so  that  we  know  not  whether 
the  intellectual  strength  of  the  man  is  incapable  of  mastering  the 
subject,  or  whether  his  physical  strength  is  inadequate  to  express  it. 
His  first  sentence,  or  rather  the  first  members  of  his  sentence — for 
we  soon  find  that  with  him  every  sentence  goes  further  than  the 
entire  speeches  of  many  other  people — come  forth  very  coldly  and 
without  confidence,  and  are  especially  so  far  from  the  real  question 
under  discussion,  that  no  one  can  comprehend  how  he  will  bring 
them  to  bear  upon  it.    It  is  true  that  every  one  of  these  sentences 


—   449  — 

is  deep,  clear  and  satisfactory  in  itself,  evidently  drawn  with  artistic 
selection  from  the  most  chosen  materials,  and  let  them  come  from 
what  department  of  science  they  may,  they  still  contain  its  purest 
essence.  We  feel  that  they  will  all  be  bent  in  a  determined  direction 
and  that  too  with  wondrous  force;  but  the  force  is  as  yet  invisible 
as  the  wind,  and  like  it,  we  know  not  whence  it  cometh  or  whither  it 
goeth. 

"But  when  a  sufficient  number  of  these  beginning  sentences  have 
gone  forth  in  advance  ;  when  every  lemma  which  human  knowledge 
can  supply  to  confirm  a  conclusion  has  been  rendered  serviceable ; 
when  every  exception  has,  by  a  single  impulse,  been  successfully 
thrust  forward,  and  when  the  whole  army  of  political  and  moral 
truths  stands  in  battle  array — then  it  moves  forwards  to  a  determi- 
nation, firmly  closed  as  a  Macedonian  phalanx,  and  irresistible  as 
Highlanders  when  they  charge  with  fixed  bayonets. 

"  When  a  leading  point  has  been  won  with  this  apparent  weakness 
and  uncertainty,  behind  which  however  a  real  strength  and  firmness 
lies  concealed,  then  the  orator  rises  both  physically  and  mentally, 
and  with  a  bolder  and  shorter  attack  he  conquers  a  second  position. 
After  the  second  he  conquers  a  third,  after  the  third  a  fourth,  and  so 
on  until  all  the  principles  and  the  entire  philosophy  of  the  question 
in  dispute  are,  as  it  were  conquered,  and  until  every  one  in  the  House 
who  has  ears  to  hear  and  a  heart  to  feel,  is  as  irresistibly  convinced 
of  the  truths  which  he  has  just  heard,  as  of  his  own  existence,  so  that 
Brougham  if  he  would  pause  here,  could  pass  unconditionally  for  the 
greatest  logician  of  Saint  Stephen's  Chapel.  The  intellectual  re- 
sources of  the  man  are  really  marvellous,  and  he  almost  recals  the 
old  northern  legend  of  one  who  always  slew  the  first  masters  of 
every  branch  of  learning,  and  thereby  became  sole  heir  to  all  their 
united  spiritual  abilities.  Let  the  subject  be  as  it  may,  sublime  or 
commonplace,  abstruse  or  practical,  Henry  Brougham  still  under- 
stands it — and  understands  it  fundamentally.  Others  may  rival  him, 
yes,  one  or  the  other  may  even  surpass  him  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
external  beauties  of  ancient  literature,  but  no  one  is  more  deeply 
penetrated  than  he  by  the  spirit  of  the  glorious  and  glowing  philo- 
sophy, which  gleams  like  a  precious  gem  from  the  caskets  left  us  by 
antiquity.  Brougham  does  not  use  the  clear,  faultless,  and  at  the 
same  time  somewhat  courtly  language  of  Cicero,  and  his  speeches 
are  as  little  in  the  form  of  those  of  Demosthenes,  though  they  have 
something  of  their  color ;  buthe  is  not  wanting  either  in  the  strongly 
logical  conclusions  of  the  Roman  orator,  nor  the  terrible  words  of 

38* 


—    450  — 

scorn  of  the  Greek.  Add  to  this  that  no  one  understands  better 
than  he,  how  to  use  the  knowledge  of  the  day  in  his  Parliamentary 
speeches,  so  that  they  sometimes,  apart  from  their  political  tendency 
and  signification,  merit  our  admiration  merely  as  lectures  on  philo- 
sophy, literature  and  art. 

"It  is,  however,  altogether  impossible  to  analyze  the  character  of 
the  man  while  hearing  him  speak.  When  he,  as  already  described, 
has  laid  the  foundation  of  his  speech  on  a  good  philosophical  ground 
and  in  the  depths  of  reason ;  when  he  again  returned  to  the  work, 
applies  to  it  plummet  and  measure  to  see  if  all  is  in  order,  and  seems 
to  try  with  a  giant's  hand  if  all  holds  together  securely ;  when  he  has 
firmly  bound  together  the  thoughts  of  all  hearers  with  arguments  as 
with  ropes  which  no  one  can  rend  asunder — then  he  springs  in  power 
on  the  edifice  which  he  has  built,  he  raises  his  form  aud  his  voice,  he 
conjures  the  passions  from  their  most  secret  hiding  place,  and  sub- 
dues and  overwhelms  his  gaping  Parliamentary  cotemporanes  and 
the  whole  murmuring  House.  That  voice  which  was  at  first  so  slow 
and  unassuming,  is  now  like  the  deafening  roar  aud  the  endless 
billows  of  the  sea ;  that  form,  which  before  seemed  sinking  under  its 
own  weight,  now  looks  as  though  it  had  nerves  of  steel  and  sinews  of 
copper,  yes,  as  though  it  were  immortal  and  unchangeable  as  the 
truths  which  it  has  just  spoken  ;  that  face  which  before  was  pale  and 
cold  as  a  stone,  is  now  animated  and  gleaming,  as  though  its  inner 
spirit  were  still  mightier  than  the  words  spoken ;  and  from  those 
eyes,  which  at  first  looked  so  humbly  at  us  with  their  blue  and 
tranquil  rings,  as  though  they  would  beg  our  forbearance  and  forgive- 
ness, there  now  shoots  forth  a  meteoric  fire  which  lights  up  every 
heart  with  admiration.  In  this  manner  he  concludes  the  second,  the 
passionate  or  declamatory  part  of  his  oration. 

••  When  he  has  attained  what  might  be  regarded  as  the  summit  of 
eloquence,  when  he  looks  around  as  if  to  behold  with  a  scornful 
laugh  the  admiration  which  he  has  excited,  then  his  form  again  sinks 
together  aud  his  voice  sinks  to  the  most  singular  whisper,  which  ever 
came  from  human  breast.  This  strange  lowering  or  rather  letting 
fall  of  expression,  gesture  and  voice  which  Brougham  possesses  to  a 
perfection,  such  as  was  never  found  in  any  other  orator,  produces  a 
wonderful  effect,  and  those  deep,  solemn,  almost  murmured-out  words, 
which  are  however  fully  audible,  even  to  the  breathing  of  every  single 
syllable,  bear  with  them  a  magic  power,  which  no  one  can  resist,  even 
when  he  hears  them  for  the  first  time  and  has  not  learned  their  real 
significance  and  effect    But  let  no  one  believe  that  the  orator  or  the 


—    451  — 

oration  is  exhausted.  These  subdued  glances,  these  softened  tones 
signify  nothing  less  than  the  beginning  of  a  peroration,  wherewith 
the  orator,  as  though  he  feels  that  he  has  gone  too  far,  will  again 
soothe  his  opponent.  On  the  contrary,  this  contraction  of  the  body 
is  no  sign  of  weakness,  and  this  lowering  of  the  voice  is  no  prelude 
to  fear  and  exhaustion ;  it  is  the  loose,  hanging  inclination  of  the 
body,  in  a  wrestler,  who  looks  for  an  opportunity  by  which  he  can 
grasp  his  adversary  the  more  powerfully,  it  is  the  recoil  of  the  tiger, 
who  an  instant  after  leaps  with  more  certain  claws  upon  his  prey,  it 
is  the  indication  that  Henry  Brougham  puts  on  all  his  armor,  and 
grasps  his  mightiest  weapons.  He  was  clear  and  convincing  in  his 
arguments,  in  conjuring  up  the  passions  he  was  it  is  true  somewhat 
supercilious,  yet  powerful  and  triumphant ;  now,  however,  he  puts  the 
last  and  longest  arrow  to  his  bow — he  will  be  terrible  in  his  invec- 
tives. "Woe  to  the  man  on  whom  that  eye.  which  was  once  so  calm 
and  blue,  now  flashes  from  the  mysterious  darkness  of  its  contracted 
brows  !  Woe  to  the  wight  to  whom  these  half-whispered  words  are 
a  portent  of  the  terrible  fate  which  hangs  over  him  ! 

"  He,  who  as  a  stranger,  visits  to-day  perhaps  for  the  first  time  the 
Gallery  of  Parliament,  does  not  know  what  is  coming.  He  merely 
sees  a  man,  who  convinces  him  with  his  arguments,  who  has  warmed 
him  with  his  passion,  and  who  now  appears  to  arrive  with  that 
strange  whispering,  at  a  weak  and  impotent  conclusion.  0  stranger ! 
wert  thou  acquanted  with  the  phenomena  of  this  House,  and  on  a 
seat  whence  thou  could'st  see  all  the  members  of  Parliament,  thou 
would'st  soon  mark  that  they  are  by  no  means  of  thy  opinion  so  far 
as  concerns  a  lame  and  impotent  conclusion.  Thou  would'st  see 
many  a  man,  whom  party  feeling  or  presumption  has  driven  without 
proper  ballast  or  needful  helm,  into  this  stormy  sea,  and  who  now 
glances  around  as  fearfully  and  anxiously  as  a  sailor  on  the  China 
Seas,  when  he  on  one  side  of  the  horizon  discovers  the  dark  calm, 
which  is  a  sure  presage  that  on  the  other,  ere  a  minute  has  passed 
away,  the  typhoon  will  blow  with  its  destructive  breath — thou 
would'st  perceive  some  shrewd  man  well  nigh  groaning,  and  who 
trembles  in  body  and  soul  like  a  small  bird,  which  yielding  to  the 
fascination  of  a  rattlesnake  feels  with  terror  its  danger,  yet  cannot 
help  itself,  and  which  yields  in  a  miserably  foolish  manuer  to  destruc- 
tion ;  or  thou  would'st  observe  some  tall  antagonist  who  clings 
with  shaking  legs  to  the  benches,  lest  the  approaching  storm  should 
drive  him  away;  or  thou  would'st  perhaps  even  see  a  stately  pursy 
representative  of  some  fat  county,  who  digs  both  fists  into  the 


—    452  — 

cushions  of  his  bench,  fully  determined,  in  case  a  man  of  his  weight 
should  be  cast  from  the  House,  still  to  keep  his  seat  and  to  bear  it 
thence,  beneath  him.  And  now  it  comes — the  words,  which  were  so 
deeply  whispered  and  murmured,  swell  out  so  loudly  that  they  out- 
sound  even  the  rejoicing  cry  of  his  own  party,  aud  after  some  un- 
lncky  opponent  has  been  flayed  to  the  bones,  and  his  mutilated 
limbs  have  been  stamped  on  through  every  figure  of  speech,  then  the 
body  of  the  orator  is  as  if  broken  down  aud  shattered  by  the  power 
of  his  own  soul,  he  sinks  back  on  his  seat,  and  the  assenting  applause 
of  the  assembly  bursts  forth  without  restraint." 

I  was  never  so  fortunate  as  to  be  able  to  see  Brougham  at  my 
leisure,  during  the  delivery  of  such  a  speech  in  Parliament.  I  only 
heard  him  speak  in  fragments,  or  on  unimportant  subjects,  and  I 
seldom  saw  his  face  while  so  doing.  But  always,  as  I  soon  observed, 
whenever  he  began  to  speak,  an  almost  painful  silence  at  once  fol- 
lowed. The  sketch  of  him  given  above,  is  most  certainly  not  exag- 
gerated. His  figure,  of  ordinary  stature,  is  very  meagre  and  in 
perfect  keeping  with  his  head,  which  is  thinly  covered  writh  short 
black  hair  which  lies  smooth  towards  the  temples.  This  causes  the 
pale,  long  face  to  look  even  thinner,  its  muscles  are  ever  in  strange 
nervous  movement,  and  he  who  observes  them,  sees  the  orator's 
thoughts,  before  they  are  spoken.  This  spoils  his  witty  outbursts ; 
since  jests  like  borrowers  should,  to  succeed,  surprise  us  unawares. 
Though  his  black  dress  is  altogether  gentlemanly,  even  to  the  very 
cut  of  the  coat,  it  still  gives  him  a  certain  clerical  appearance. 
Perhaps  this  is  owing  more  to  his  frequent  bending  of  the  back, 
and  the  lurking,  ironic  suppleness  of  his  whole  body.  One  of  my 
friends  first  called  my  attention  to  this  "clerical"  appearance  in 
Brougham's  manner  and  the  above  sketch  fully  confirms  the  acute- 
ness  of  the  remark.  The  "lawyerlike"  in  his  general  appearance, 
was  first  suggested  to  me  by  the  manner  in  which  he  continually  de- 
monstrates with  his  pointing  finger,  while  he  nods  assentingly  with 
his  head. 

The  restless  activity  of  the  man  is  his  most  wonderful  feature. 
These  speeches  in  Parliament  are  delivered  after  he  has  been  eight 
hours  at  his  daily  tasks,  that  is  to  say,  practising  law  in  the  courts, 
and  when  he  perhaps  has  sat  up  half  the  night,  writing  an  article  for 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  or  laboring  on  his  improvements  of  Popular 
Education  and  Criminal  Law.  The  first  mentioned  work,  that  on 
Criminal  Legislation,  with  which  Brougham  and  Peel  are  now  princi- 
pally busied,  is  perhaps  the  most  useful,  certainly  the  most  neces- 


—    453  — 

sary ;  for  England's  laws  are  even  more  cruel  than  her  oligarchs. 
Brougham's  celebrity  was  first  founded  by  the  suit  against  the 
Queen.  He  fought  like  a  knight  for  this  high  dame,  and,  as  any  one 
might  suppose,  George  IV.  will  never  forget  the  service  rendered  to 
his  wife.  Therefore,  when,  in  April  last,  the  Opposition  conquered, 
Brougham  did  not  enter  the  ministry ;  although,  according  to  old 
custom,  such  an  entry  was  due  to  him,  as  leader  of  the  Opposition. 


THE  EMANCIPATION. 

Talk  politics  with  the  stupidest  Englishman,  and  he  will  be  sure  to 
say  something  sensible.  But  so  soon  as  the  conversation  turns  on 
rdiyion,  the  most  intelligent  Englishman  utters  nothing  but  silly 
speeches.  Hence  arises  all  that  confusion  of  ideas,  that  mixture  of 
wisdom  and  nonsense,  whenever  Catholic  Emancipation  is  discussed 
in  Parliament :  a  question  in  which  politics  and  religion  come  into 
collision.  It  is  seldom  possible  for  the  English,  in  their  Parlia- 
mentary discussions,  to  give  utterance  to  a  principle ;  they  discuss 
only  the  profit  or  loss  of  things,  and  bring  forth  facts,  pro  or  con. 

With  mere  facts,  there  can  indeed  be  much  fighting,  but  no  vic- 
tory— they  induce  nothing  but  blows  on  one  or  the  other  side ;  and 
the  spectacle  of  such  a  strife  reminds  us  of  the  well-known  pro  pair ia 
conflicts  of  German  students,  the  results  of  which  are,  that  so  and 
so  many  lunges  are  exchanged,  and  so  and  so  many  carte  and  tierce 
thrusts  made,  and  nothing  gained  with  it  all. 

In  the  year  1827,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  Emancipationists 
again  fought  the  Orangemen  in  Westminster,  and  as  another  matter 
of  course,  nothing  came  of  it.  The  best  "  hitters"  of  the  Emanci- 
pation party  were  Burdett,  Plunkett,  Brougham  and  Canning. 
Their  opponents,  with  the  exception  of  Peel,  were  the  well  known, 
or  more  correctly  speaking,  the  not-at-all-known,  fox-hunting  squire- 
archy. 

At  all  times,  the  most  intelligent  and  gifted  statesmen  of  England 
have  fought  for  the  civil  liberty  of  the  Catholics ;  and  this  they  did, 
inspired  as  much  by  the  deepest  sense  of  right,  as  by  political  shrewd- 
ness. Pitt  himself,  the  discoverer  of  the  firm  system,  held  to  the 
Catholic  party.    In  like  manner,  Burke,  the  great  renegade  of  free- 


—    451  — 

dorn,  could  not  so  far  suppress  the  voice  of  his  heart  as  to  act  against 
Ireland.  Even  Canning,  while  vet  a  slave  to  Toryism,  could  not 
behoid,  without  emotion,  the  misery  of  Ireland ;  and  at  a  time  wheu 
be  was  accused  of  luke-warmness.  he  showed,  in  a  naively  touching 
manner,  how  dear  its  cause  was  to  him.  In  fact,  a  great  man  can.  to 
attain  great  aims,  ofteu  act  contrary  to  his  convictions,  and  go  ambigu- 
ously from  one  party  to  another:  and.  in  such  cases,  we  must  be  com- 
plaisant enough  to  admit,  that  he  who  will  establish  himself  on  a 
certain  height  must  yield  accordingly  to  circumstances,  like  the 
weather-cock  on  a  church  spire,  which,  though  it  be  made  of  iron,  would 
soon  be  broken  aud  cast  down  by  the  storm-wiud,  if  it  remained 
obstinately  immoveable,  and  did  not  understand  the  noble  art  of 
turning  to  every  wind.  But  a  great  man  will  never  so  far  coutradict 
his  own  feelings  as  to  see.  or  it  may  be.  increase,  with  cold-blooded 
indifference,  the  misfortunes  of  his  fellow  countrymen.  As  we  love 
our  mother,  so  do  we  love  the  soil  on  which  we  were  born,  and  even 
so  do  we  love  the  flowers,  the  perfume,  the  language  and  the  men 
peculiar  to  that  soil.  Xo  religion  is  so  bad  and  no  politics  so  good, 
that  they  can  extinguish  such  a  love  iu  the  bosoms  of  its  devotees, 
and  Burke  and  Canning,  though  Protestants  and  Tories,  could  not. 
for  all  that,  take  part  against  poor  green  Eriu,  Those  Irishmen  who 
spread  terrible  misery  and  unutterable  wretchedness  over  their  father- 
land, are  men — like  the  late  Castlerkagh. 

It  is  a  regular  matter  of  course  that  the  great  mass  of  the  English 
people  should  be  opposed  to  the  Catholics,  aud  daily  besiege  Parlia- 
ment for  the  purpose  of  withholding  privileges  from  the  latter. 
There  is  a  love  of  oppression  in  humau  nature,  and  wheu  even  we.  as 
is  constantly  done,  complain  of  civil  inequality,  our  eyes  are  always 
directed  upwards — we  see  only  those  who  stand  over  us,  and  whose 
privileges  abuse  us.  But  we  never  look  downwards  when  complain- 
ing thus — the  idea  never  comes  into  our  heads  to  raise  to  our  level 
those  who  are  placed  by  unjust  custom  below  us  ;  yes,  we  are  souudly 
vexed  when  they  seek  to  ascend,  and  we  rap  them  on  the  head.  The 
Creole  demands  equality  with  the  European,  but  oppresses  the 
Mulatto,  and  flares  up  iu  a  rage  when  the  latter  puts  himself  on  an 
equality  with  him.*  Just  so  does  the  Mulatto  treat  the  Mestizo,  and 
he  in  turn  the  Negro.  The  small  citizen  of  Frankfort  worries  himself 
over  the  privileges  of  the  nobility,  but  he  worries  himself  much  more, 
when  any  oue  snggests  to  him  the  emancipation  of  his  Jews.   I  have 

*  Hr.Ni  srr  'st*  :-  '  -v,-  W:o-vd  u-der  the  cmraon.bat  erroneous  Eurcpe&n  i-iea,  that 

a  Or  mit  is  one  of  nibbed  IJooJ. — IXotc  by  TVomfaitor. 


—  455 

a  friend  in  Poland,  who  is  wild  for  freedom  and  equality,  but  who,  to 
this  hour,  has  n  ver  freed  his  peasants  from  their  serfdom. 

No  explanation  is  requisite  to  show  why  the  Catholics  are  prr- 
secuted,  so  far  as  the  English  clergy  is  concerned.  Persecution  of 
those  who  think  differently  is  everywhere  a  clerical  monopoly,  and 
the  Angelican  Church  strongly  asserts  her  rights.  Of  course  tithes 
are  the  main  thing  with  her ;  by  emancipating  the  Catholics,  she 
would  lose  a  great  part  of  her  income,  and  the  sacrifice  of  8dfiiniere*i, 
is  a  talent  manifested  as  little  by  the  priests  of  love,  as  by  sinful 
laymen.  Hence  it  happened,  that  that  glorious  revolution,  to  which 
England  owes  most  of  her  present  liberty  sprang  from  religious  Pro- 
testant zeal :  a  circumstance,  which  imposes  special  duties  of  grati- 
tude towards  the  dominant  church,  and  causes  her  to  regard  the 
latter,  as  the  main  bulwark  of  her  freedom.  Many  a  fearful  soul 
may  at  present  really  dread  Catholicism  and  its  restoration,  and 
think  of  the  flaming  piles  of  Smithfield — and  a  burnt  child  dreads 
the  fire  !  There  are  also  timid  members  of  Parliament,  who  dread  a 
new  Gunpowder  Plot — those  fear  powder  most,  who  have  not  dis- 
covered it — and  so  they  often  feel  as  if  the  green  benches  on  which 
they  sit  in  St.  Stephen's  Chapel,  became,  little  by  little,  warmer  5 
and  when  an  orator,  as  very  often  happens,  mentions  the  name  of 
Guy  Fawkes,  they  cry  out  "  hear !  hear !"  as  if  in  terror.  As  for 
the  Rector  of  Goettingen,  who  has  an  appointment  in  London  as 
King  of  England,  he  is  fully  familiar  with  his  policy  of  moderation 
and  forbearance ;  he  declares  himself  in  favor  of  neither  party,  he 
sees  both  mutually  weaken  themselves  by  combat,  he  smiles  in  his 
hereditary  manner  when  they  peaceably  court  him,  he  knows  every 
thing,  does  nothing,  and  in  cases  of  difficulty,  leaves  everything  to 
his  head  catch-poll,  Wellington. 

I  trust  that  I  may  be  pardoned  for  treating  in  a  flippant  tone,  a 
question  on  whose  solution  depends  the  happiness  of  England,  and 
with  it  perhaps  directly,  that  of  all  the  world.  But  just  the 
weightier  the  subject,  so  much  the  more  merrily  must  we  manage 
it ;  the  bloody  butchery  of  battles,  the  fearful  whetting  of  the  sickle 
of  death,  would  be  beyond  all-bearing,  did  there  not  ring  out  with  it, 
and  through  it,  deafening  military  music,  with  its  joy-inspiring  drums 
and  trumpets.  This  the  English  know  right  well,  and  therefore, 
their  Parliament  displaj^s  a  cheerful  comedy  of  the  most  unrestrained 
wit,  and  of  the  wittiest  unrestraint.  In  the  most  serious  debates, 
where  the  lives  of  thousands  and  the  welfare  of  whole  countries  is  at 
stake,  it  never  occurs  to  any  one  to  make  a  stiff  German  district- 


—   456  — 

representative  face,*  or  to  declaim  French-pathetically,  and  theii 
minds  like  their  bodies  act  freely  and  without  restraiut.  Jest,  self- 
quizzing,  sarcasms,  natural  disposition  and  wisdom,  malice  and  good 
nature,  logic  and  verse,  spray  forth  in  the  freshest  variations  of 
color,  so  that  the  annals  of  Parliament)  years  after,  afford  us  a  most 
glorious  entertainment.  How  strongly  do  these  debates  contrast 
with  the  empty,  bolstered-up,  blotting-paper  speeches,  of  our  South 
German  Chambers,  whose  tiresomeness  defies  the  patience  of  the 
most  unwearied  newspaper  reader;  yes,  whose  very  aroma,  suffices 
to  scare  away  any  living  reader,  so  that  we  must  believe  that  the 
tiresomeness  in  question,  is  a  secret  and  deliberate  iutention  to 
frighten  the  public  from  reading  their  acts,  and  thereby,  to  keep 
them  secret,  despite  their  publicity. 

If  the  manner  in  which  the  English  treat  the  Catholic  question  in 
Parliament  is  but  little  adapted  to  produce  a  result,  it  is  not  the  less 
true,  that  the  reading  of  these  debates  is  on  that  account,  all  the 
more  interesting,  because  facts  are  more  entertaining  than  abstrac- 
tions, and  they  are  especially  amusing,  when  a  cotemporary  event  is 
narrated  in  a  story-telling  form,  which  handles  it  with  witty  persiflage, 
and  thereby  illustrates  it,  it  may  be,  in  the  best  possible  manner. 
In  the  debate  on  the  royal  speech.  December  3d,  1825,  we  had  in  the 
Upper  House,  one  of  these  parallel  histories,  such  as  described,  and 
which  I  here  literally  translate:  (vid.  Parliamentary  History  and 
Review  during  the  session  of  1825-1826,  page  31.) 

"Lord  King  remarked,  that  if  England  could  be  called  flourishing 
and  happy,  there  were  notwithstanding,  six  millions  of  Catholics  in 
an  altogether  differeut  condition,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Irish  Chan- 
nel, and  that  the  bad  government  there,  was  a  shame  to  our  age  and 
to  every  Briton.  The  whole  world,  said  he,  is  now  too  reasonable  to 
excuse  governments  which  oppress  their  subjects,  or  rob  them  of  a 
right,  on  account  of  differences  in  religion.  Ireland  and  Turkey  could 
be  regarded  as  the  only  countries  in  Europe,  where  whole  classes  of 
men  were  oppressed  and  made  to  suffer,  on  account  of  their  creeds. 
The  Grand  Sultan  had  endeavored  to  convert  the  Greeks,  in  the 
same  mauner  in  which  the  English  Government  had  attempted  the 
conversion  of  the  Catholics,  but  without  result.  When  the  unfortu- 
nate Greeks  bewailed  their  sufferings,  and  begged  in  the  humblest 
manner  to  be  treated  a  little  better  than  Mahometan  dogs,  the 
Sultan  summoned  his  Grand  Yizier  to  give  council.    This  Grand 

*  Landdcendegesicht :— a  face  for  Bunkum. 


—    457  - 

Vizier  had  beeu  formerly  a  friend  and  more  recently  an  enemy  of  the 
Sultana.  He  had  thereby  suffered  considerably  in  the  favor  of  his 
lord,  and  was  obliged  to  endure,  in  his  own  Divan,  many  contradictions 
from  his  own  officers  and  servants.  (Laughter.)  He  was  an  enemy 
of  the  Greeks.  The  second  person  in  influence  in  the  Divan  was  the 
Reis  EfFendi,  who  was  favorably  inclined  to  the  just  demands  of  that 
unlucky  race.  This  officer,  as  was  well-known,  was  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs  and  his  policy  merited  and  received  general  approba- 
tion. He  manifested  in  this  field  extraordinary  liberality  and  talent, 
he  did  much  good  and  would  have  effected  much  more,  had  he  not 
been  impeded  in  all  his  measures  by  his  less  enlightened  colleagues. 
He  was  in  fact  the  only  man  of  real  genius  in  the  whole  Divan, 
(Laughter,)  and  he  was  esteemed  as  an  ornament  to  the  statesmen 
of  Turkey,  since  he  was  also  endowed  with  poetic  talent.  The 
Kiaya-Bey  or  Minister  of  the  Interior  and  the  Kapitän  Pasha  were 
also  opposed  to  the  Greeks  ;  the  leader  of  the  whole  opposition  to 
the  demand  for  rights  of  this  race  was  the  Grand  Mufti,  or  the  head 
of  the  Mahometan  Faith.  (Laughter.)  This  officer  was  an  enemy 
to  every  change.  He  had  regularly  opposed  every  improvement  in 
commerce,  every  improvement  in  justice,  every  improvement  in 
foreign  policy.  (Laughter.)  He  declared  and  showed  himself  on 
every  occasion  to  be  the  great  champion  of  existing  abuses.  He  was 
the  most  finished  intriguer  in  the  whole  Divan.  (Laughter.)  At  an 
earlier  time  he  had  declared  for  the  Sultana,  but  he  had  turned 
against  her  so  soon  as  he  feared  that  he  thereby  might  lose  his  seat 
in  the  Divan,  and  had  even  gone  over  to  the  party  of  her  enemies. 
The  proposition  was  once  made  to  enlist  some  Greeks  into  the  corps 
of  regular  troops  or  Janissaries,  but  the  Head-Mufti  raised  against  this 
such  a  terrible  hue  and  cry — something  like  our  No-Popery  cry, — 
that  those  who  adopted  the  measure  were  obliged  to  quit  the  Divan. 
He  gained  the  upper  hand  and  so  soon  as  this  was  done,  he  declared 
himself  in  favor  of  the  very  cause  against  which  he  previously  dis- 
played all  his  zeal.  He  took  care  of  the  Sultan's  conscience  and  of 
his  own  ;  but  it  had  been  remarked  that  his  conscience  was  never  in 
opposition  to  his  interests.  (Laughter.)  Having  studied  the  Turk- 
ish Constitution  with  the  utmost  accuracy,  he  had  found  in  it  that  it 
was  substantially  Mahometan,  (Laughter.)  and  consequently  must 
be  inimical  to  all  the  rights  of  the  Greeks.  He  had  therefore  deter- 
mined to  adhere  firmly  to  the  cause  of  intolerance,  and  was  soon 
surrounded  by  Mollahs,  Imans  and  Dervishes,  who  confirmed  him  in 
ais  noble  determinations.    To  complete  this  picture  of  a  perfect 

89 


—    453  — 


division  in  the  Divan,  it  should  also  be  mentioned  that  its  members 
had  agreed  to  unite  on  certain  questions,  and  to  oppose  one  another 
on  others,  without  breaking  up  their  union.  After  the  evil  arising 
from  such  a  Divan  had  been  seen,  after  it  had  been  seen  too  how  the 
Musselman  realm  had  been  torn,  and  that  by  their  intolerance  to  the 
Greeks,  and  by  their  own  want  of  harmony ;  we  should  pray  Heaven 
to  preserve  the  father  land  from  such  a  division  in  the  Cabinet." 

It  requires  no  remarkable  acuteness  to  guess  who  the  persons  are, 
here  disguised  in  Turkish  names  ;  still  less  is  it  necessary  to  set  forth 
the  moral  of  "the  tale  in  dry  words.  The  cannon  of  Navarino  have 
spoken  it  out  loud  enough ;  and  when  the  Sublime  Porte  shall  be 
shattered — and  shattered  it  will  be,  despite  Pera's  plenipotentiaried 
lackeys,  who  oppose  the  ill-will  of  the  people — then  John  Bull  may 
call  to  mind  that,  with  changed  names,  the  fable  applies  to  him. 
England  may  already  surmise  something  of  the  kind,  since  its  best 
journalists  have  declared  against  the  war  of  intervention,  and  signi- 
fied, naively  enough,  that  the  other  nations  of  "Europe  might,  with 
equal  right,  take  up  the  part  of  Catholic  Ireland,  and  compel  the 
British  Government  to  a  better  treatment  of  it.  They  think  that 
they  have  thereby  fully  refuted  the  right  of  intervention,  whereas 
they  have  simply  illustrated  it  more  perfectly  and  intelligibly.  Of 
course,  the  nations  of  Europe  would  have  the  most  sacred  right  to 
remedy,  by  force  of  arms,  the  sufferings  of  Ireland ;  and  this  right 
would  soon  be  realized,  were  not  injustice  the  stronger.  It  is  no 
longer  crowned-heads,  but  the  people  themselves,  who  are  the  heroes 
of  modern  times,  and  these  heroes  have  also  formed  their  holy  alli- 
ance. They  hold  together  wherever  there  is  a  question  of  the  com- 
mon weal,  or  the  popular  rights  of  political  and  religious  liberty ; 
they  are  connected  by  the  Idea \;  they  have  sworn  themselves  to  it, 
and  bleed  for  it — yes,  they  themselves  have  become  an  idea — and 
therefore  it  runs  like  a  sharp  pain  through  the  hearts  of  all  the  peo- 
ple, when  the  Idea  is  made  to  suffer,  though  it  be  in  the  uttermost 
corner  of  the  earth. 


10. 

WELLINGTON. 


The  man  has  the  bad  fortune  to  meet  with  good  fortune  every- 
where, and  wherever  the  greatest  men  in  the  world  were  unfortunate ; 


—    450  — 


and  that  excites  us,  and  makes  him  hateful.  We  see  in  him  only  the 
victory  of  stupidity  over  genius — Arthur  Wellington  triumphant 
where  Napoleon  Bonaparte  is  overwhelmed  !  Never  was  a  man 
more  ironically  gifted  by  Fortune,  and  it  seems  as  though  she  would 
exhibit  his  empty  littleness  by  raising  him  high  on  the  shield  of  vic- 
tory. Fortune  is  a  woman,  and  perhaps,  in  womanly  wise,  she  cher- 
ishes a  secret  grudge  against  the  man  who  overthrew  her  former 
darling,  though  the  very  overthrow  came  from  her  own  will.  Now 
she  lets  him  conquer  again  on  the  Catholic  Emancipation  question — 
yes,  in  the  very  fight  in  which  George  Canning  was  destroyed.  It 
is  possible  that  he  might  have  been  loved  had  the  wretched  London- 
derry been  his  predecessor  in  the  ministry  ;  but  it  happens  that  he 
is  the  successor  of  the  noble  Canning — of  the  much  wept,  adored, 
great  Canning, — and  he  conquers  where  Canning  was  overwhelmed. 
Without  such  an  adversity  of  prosperity,  Wellington  would  perhaps 
pass  for  a  great  man ;  people  would  not  hate  him,  would  not  measure 
him  too  accurately,  at  least  not  with  the  heroic  measure  with  which  a 
Napoleon  and  a  Canning  is  measured,  and  consequently  it  would 
never  have  been  discovered  how  small  he  really  is  as  a  man. 

He  is  a  small  man,  and  smaller  than  small  at  that.  The  French 
could  say  nothing  more  sarcastic  of  Polignac,  than  that  he  was  a 
Wellington  without  celebrity.  In  fact,  what  remains  when  we  strip 
from  a  Wellington  the  field-marshal's  uniform  of  celebrity  ? 

I  have  here  given  the  best  apology  for  Lord  Wellington — in  the 
English  sense  of  the  word.  My  readers  will  be  astonished  when  I 
honorably  confess  that  I  once  praised  this  hero — and  clapped  on  all 
sail  in  so  doing.    It  is  a  good  story,  and  I  will  tell  it  here : 

My  barber,  in  London,  was  a  radical,  named  Mr.  White — a  pooi 
little  man  in  a  shabby  black  dress,  worn  until  it  almost  shone  white 
again ;  he  was  so  lean  that  even  his  full  face  looked  like  a  profile, 
and  the  sighs  in  his  bosom  were  visible  ere  they  rose.  These  sighs 
were  caused  by  the  misfortunes  of  Old  England — by  the  impossi- 
bility of  paying  the  National  Debt. 

M  Ah  !"  I  generally  heard  him  sigh,  "  why  need  the  English  people 
trouble  themselves  as  to  who  reigns  in  France,  and  what  the  French 
are  a-doing  at  home  ?  But  the  high  nobility,  sir,  and  the  High 
Church,  were  afraid  of  the  principles  of  liberty  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, and,  to  keep  down  these  principles,  John  Bull  must  give  his 
gold  and  his  blood,  and  make  debts  into  the  bargain.  We've  got  all 
we  wanted  out  of  the  war — the  revolution  has  been  put  down,  the 
French  eagles  of  liberty  have  had  their  wings  cut,  and  the  High 


—   460  — 

Church  may  be  cock-sure  that  none  of  them  eagles  will  come  a-flying 
over  the  Channel ;  and  now  the  high  nobility  and  the  High  Church 
between  'em  ought  to  pay,  any  way,  for  the  debts,  which  were  made 
for  their  own  good,  and  not  for  any  good  of  the  poor  people.  Ah ! — 
the  poor  people  !" 

Whenever  Mr.  White  came  to  the  "  poor  people,"  he  always 
sighed  more  deeply  than  ever,  and  the  refrain  then  was,  that  bread 
and  porter  were  so  dear,  that  the  poor  people  must  starve  to  feed  fat 
lords,  stag-hounds  and  priests,  and  that  there  was  only  one  remedy. 
At  these  words  he  was  wont  to  whet  his  razor,  and  as  he  drew  it 
murderously  up  and  down  the  strop, Jie  murmured  grimly  to  himself, 
"  Lords,  priests,  hounds  1" 

But  his  radical  rage  boiled  most  fiercely  against  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington ;  he  spat  gall  and  poison  whenever  he  alluded  to  him,  and  as 
he  lathered  me,  he  himself  foamed  with  rage.  Once  I  was  fairly 
frightened,  when  he,  while  barbering  away  at  my  neck,  burst  out  in 
wonted  wise  against  Wellington,  murmuring  all  the  while :  "  If  I 
only  had  him  this  way  under  my  razor,  I'd  save  him  the  trouble  of 
cutting  his  own  throat,  as  his  brother  in  office  and  fellow  countryman, 
Londonderry  did,  who  killed  himself  that-a-way  at  North  Cray,  in 
Kent — God  damn  him-!" 

I  felt  that  the  man's  hand  trembled,  and  fearing  lest  he  might 
imagine  in  his  excitement  that  I  really  was  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
I  endeavored  to  allay  his  violence,  and  in  an  underhanded  manner,  to 
soothe  him,  I  called  up  his  national  pride,  I  represented  to  him  that 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  had  advanced  the  glory  of  the  English,  that 
he  had  always  been  an  innocent  tool  in  the  hands  of  others,  that  he 
was  fond  of  beefsteak,  and  that  he  finally — but  the  Lord  only  knows 
what  fine  things  I  said  of  Wellington,  as  I  felt  that  razor  tickling 
around  my  throat ! 

What  vexes  me  most  is  the  reflection  that  Wellington  will  be  as 
immortal  as  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  It  is  true  that  in  like  manner 
the  name  of  Pontius  Pilate  will  be  as  little  likely  to  be  forgotten  as 
that  of  Christ.  Wellington  and  Napoleon  !  It  is  a  wonderful 
phenomenon  that  the  human  mind  can  at  the  same  time  think  of  both 
these  names.  There  can  be  no  greater  contrast  than  the  two,  even 
in  their  external  appearance.  Wellington,  the  dumb  ghost,  with  an 
ashy  grey  soul  in  a  buckram  body,  a  wooden  smile  in  his  freezing 
face — and  by  the  side  of  that  think  of  the  figure  of  Napoleon,  every 
inch  a  god  ! 


—    461  — 


That  figure  never  disappears  from  my  memory,  I  still  see  him, 
high  on  his  steed  with  eternal  eyes  in  his  marble-like,  imperial  face, 
glancing  calm  as  destiny  on  the  guards  defiling  past — he  was  then 
sending  them  to  Russia,  and  the  old  grenadiers  glanced  up  at  him, 
so  terribly  devoted,  so  all-consciously  serious,  so  proud  in  death- 

Te,  Caesar,  morituri,  aalutant! 

There  often  steals  over  me  a  secret  doubt,  whether  I  ever  really 
saw  him,  if  we  were  ever  cotemporaries,  and  then  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  his  portrait  torn  from  the  little  frame  of  the  present,  vanished 
away  more  proudly  and  imperiously  in  the  twilight  of  the  past.  His 
name  even  now  sounds  to  us  like  a  word  of  the  early  world,  and  as 
antique  and  as  heroic  as  those  of  Alexander  and  Caesar.  It  has 
already  become  a  rallying  word  among  races,  and  when  the  East  and 
the  West  meet,  they  fraternise  on  that  single  name. 

I  once  felt  in  the  deepest  manner  how  significantly  and  magically 
that  name  can  sound.  It  was  in  the  harbor  of  London,  at  the  India 
Docks,  and  on  board  an  East  Indiaman  just  arrived  from  Bengal. 
It  was  a  giant-like  ship  fully  manned  with  Hindoos.  The  grotesque 
forms  and  groups,  the  singularly  variegated  dresses,  the  enigmatical 
expressions  of  countenance,  the  strange  gestures,  the  wild  and 
foreign  ring  of  their  language,  their  shouts  of  joy  and  their  laughter, 
with  the  seriousness  ever  rising  and  falling  on  certain  soft  yellow 
faces,  their  eyes  like  black  flowers  which  looked  at  me  as  with 
wondrous  woe — all  of  this  awoke  in  me  a  feeling  like  that  of  enchant- 
ment, I  was  suddenly  as  if  transported  into  Scherezade's  story,  and 
I  thought  that  broad  leaved-palms,  and  long-necked  camels,  and 
gold  covered  elephants  and  other  fable-like  trees  and  animals  must 
forthwith  appear.  The  supercargo  who  was  on  the  vessel,  and  who 
understood  as  little  of  the  language  as  I  myself,  could  not  in  his 
real  English  narrow-mindedness  narrate  to  me  enough  of  what  a 
ridiculous  race  they  were,  nearly  all  pure  Mahometans  collected  from 
every  land  of  Asia,  from  the  limits  of  China  to  the  Arabian  sea,  there 
being  even  some  jet  black,  woolly-haired  Africans  among  them. 

To  one  whose  whole  soul  was  weary  of  the  spiritless  West,  and 
who  was  as  sick  of  Europe  as  I  then  was,  this  fragment  of  the  East 
which  moved  cheerfully  and  changingly  before  my  eyes  was  a  re- 
freshing solace,  my  heart  enjoyed  at  least  a  few  drops  of  that  draught 
which  I  had  so  often  tasted  in  gloomy  Hanoverian  or  Royal  Prussian 
winter  nights,  and  it  is  very  possible  that  the  foreigners  saw  in  me 
how  agreeable  the  sight  of  them  was  to  me,  and  how  gladly  I  would 

39* 

 I 


—   462  — 


have  spoken  a  kind  word  to  them.  It  was  aiso  plain  from  the  very 
depths  of  their  eyes  how  much  I  pleased  them,  and  they  would  also 
have  willingly  said  something  pleasant  to  me,  and  it  was  a  vexation 
that  neither  understood  the  other's  language.  At  length  a  means 
occurred  to  me  of  expressing  to  them  with  a  single  word  my  friendly 
feelings,  and  stretching  forth  my  hands  reverentially  as  if  in 
loving  greeting,  I  cried  the  name,  "Mahomed!"  Joy  suddenly 
flashed  over  the  dark  faces  of  the  foreigners,  and  folding  their 
arms  as  reverentially  in  turn,  as  a  cheerful  greeting  they  exclaimed 
"  Bonaparte!" 


1L 

THE  LIBERATION". 

Should  the  time  for  leisurely  research  ever  return  to  me,  I  will 
prove  in  the  most  tiresomely  fundamental  manner,  that  it  was  not 
India,  but  Egypt  which  originated  that  system  of  castes,  which  has  for 
two  thousand  years  disguised  itself  in  the  garb  of  every  country, 
and  has  deceived  every  age  in  its  own  language,  which  is  now  per- 
haps dead,  yet  which  counterfeiting  the  appearance  of  life  wanders 
about  among  us,  evil-eyed  and  mischief  making,  poisoning  our  bloom- 
ing life  with  its  corpse  vapor ;  yes,  which  like  a  vampire  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  sucks  blood  from  the  nations,  and  light  from  their 
hearts.  It  was  not  merely  crocodiles  which  knew  so  well  how  to 
weep,  which  sprang  from  the  mud  of  the  Nile,  but  also  priests  who 
understand  it  far  better,  and  that  privileged  hereditary  race  of 
warriors,  who  in  their  lust  of  murder  and  ravenous  appetites  far 
surpass  any  crocodiles. 

Two  deeply  thinking  men  of  the  German  nation  discovered  the 
soundest  and  best  counter-charm  to  the  worst  of  all  Egyptian 
plagues,  and  by  the  black  art — by  gunpowder  and  the  art  of  printing 
— they  broke  the  force  of  that  clerical  and  laical  hierarchy,  which  had 
formed  itself  from  an  union  of  the  priesthood  and  warrior  caste,  that 
is  to  say,  from  the  so-called  Catholic  Church,  and  from  the  feudal 
nobility,  and  which  enslaved  all  Europe  both  in  body  and  in  the  spirit. 
The  printing-press  burst  asunder  the  walls  of  the  building  of  dogmas 
in  which  the  great  priest  of  Rome  had  imprisoned  souls,  and  Northern 
Europe  again  breathed  freely,  freed  from  the  night-mare  of  that 


-    463  — 


clevgy  which  had  indeed  abandoned  the  form  of  Egyptian  inheri- 
tance of  rank,  but  which  remained  all  the  truer  to  the  Egyptian 
priestly  spirit,  since  it  presented  itself  with  greater  sternness  and 
asperity,  as  a  corporation  of  old  bachelors,  continued  not  by  natural 
propagation,  but  by  a  Mameluke  system  of  recruiting.  In  like  man- 
ner we  see  how  the  warlike  caste  has  lost  its  power  since  the  old 
routine  of  the  business  is  worth  nothing  in  the  modern  methods  of 
war.  For  the  strongest  castles  are  now  thrown  down  by  the  trumpet- 
tones  of  the  cannon  as  the  walls  of  Jericho  were  thrown  down  of  old, 
the  iron  harness  of  the  knight  is  no  better  protection  against  the 
leaden  rain,  than  the  linen  blouse  of  the  peasant ;  powder  makes 
men  equal;  a  citizen's  musket  fires  as  well  as  a  nobleman's — the 
people  rise. 

*         *         *         *  *         *  * 

The  earlier  efforts  of  which  we  read  in  the  history  of  the  Lombard 
and  Tuscan  republics,  of  the  Spanish  communes,  and  of  the  free  cities 
in  Germany  and  other  countries,  do  not  deserve  the  honor  of  being 
classed  as  a  movement  on  the  part  of  the  people ;  they  were  not 
efforts  to  attain  liberty,  but  merely  liberties  ;  not  battles  for  right, 
but  for  municipal  rights ;  corporations  fought  for  privileges,  and  all 
remained  fixed  in  the  bonds  of  gilds  and  trade's  unions. 

Not  until  the  days  of  the  Reformation  did  the  battle  assume  general 
and  spiritual  proportions,  and  then  liberty  was  demanded,  not  as 
an  imported,  but  as  an  aboriginal ;  not  as  an  inherited,  but  as  an 
inborn  right.  Principles  were  brought  forward  instead  of  old 
parchments  ;  and  the  peasants  in  Germany,  and  the  Puritans  in 
England,  fell  back  on  the  gospel  whose  texts  then  were  of  as  high 
authority  as  our  modern  reasoning.  Yes,  and  even  higher,  since 
they  were  regarded  as  the  revealed  reason  of  God  himself.  There  it 
stood  legibly  written,  that  men  are  of  equal  birth,  that  the  pride 
which  exalts  itself  must  be  damned,  that  wealth  is  a  sin,  and  that  the 
poor  also  are  summoned  to  enjoyment  in  the  beautiful  garden  of 
God,  the  common  Father  of  all. 

With  the  Bible  in  one  hand  and  with  the  sword  in  the  other,  the 
peasants  swept  over  South  Germany,  and  announced  to  the  proud  and 
wealthy  burgher-hood  of  high-towered  Nuremberg,  that  in  future  no 
house  should  be  left  standing,  which  seemed  other  than  a  peasant's 
house.  So  truly  and  so  deeply  had  they  comprehended  the  truth. 
Even  at  the  present  day  in  Franconia  and  in  Suabia,  we  see  traces 
of  this  doctrine  of  equality,  and  a  shuddering  reverence  of  the  holy 
spirit  creeps  over  the  wanderer,  when  he  sees  in  the  moonshine  the 


dark  ruins  of  castles  from  the  time  of  the  Peasant's  War.  It  is  well 
for  him,  who,  in  sober,  waking  mood,  sees  naught  besides  ;  but  if  one 
is  a  "  Sunday  child" — and  everyone  familiar  with  history  is  that — he 
Will  also  see  the  high  hunt,  in  which  the  German  nobility,  the  rudest 
and  sternest  in  the  world,  pursued  their  victims.  He  will  see 
how  unarmed  men  were  slaughtered  by  thousands ;  how  they  were 
racked,  speared  and  martyred  ;  and  from  the  waving  corn-fields  he 
will  see  the  bloody  peasant's  heads  nodding  mysteriously,  while  above 
a  terrible  lark  is  heard  whistling,  piping  revenge,  like  the  Piper  of 
Helfenstein.* 

The  brothers  in  England  and  Scotland  were  more  fortunate ;  their 
defeat  was  neither  so  disgraceful  nor  so  unproductive,  and  to  the 
present  day  we  see  there  the  results  of  their  rule.  But  they  did  not 
effect  a  firm  foundation  of  their  principles,  the  dainty  cavaliers  now 
rule  again  as  before,  and  amuse  themselves  with  merry  tales  of  the 
stiff  old  Roundheads,  which  a  friendly  bard  has  written  so  prettily 
to  entertain  their  leisure  hours.  No  social  overthrow  took  place  iu 
Great  Britain,  the  frame-work  of  civil  and  political  institutions 
remained  undisturbed,  the  tyranny  of  castes  and  of  trade-guilds  has 
remained  there,  till  the  present  day,  and  though  penetrated  by  the 
light  and  warmth  of  modern  civilization,  England  is  still  congealed 
in  a  medieval  condition,  or  rather  in  the  condition  of  a  fashionable 
Middle  Age.  The  concessions  which  have  there  been  made  to 
libcial  ideas,  have  been  with  difficulty  wrested  from  this  mediaeval 
immovability,  and  all  modern  improvements  have  there  proceeded, 
not  from  a  principle,  but  from  actual  necessity,  and  they  all  bear  the 
curse  of  that  half-way  system  which  inevitably  makes  new  exertion 
and  new  conflicts  to  the  death,  with  all  their  attendant  dangers,  a 
matter  of  necessity.  The  religious  reformation  in  England  is  conse- 
quently but  half  perfected,  and  one  finds  himself  much  worse  off 
between  the  four  bare  prison  walls  of  the  Episcopal  Anglican  Church, 
than  in  the  large,  beautifully  painted  and  softly  cushioned  prison  for 
the  soul,  of  Catholicism.  Nor  has  it  succeeded  much  better  with  the 
political  reformation  ;  popular  representation  is  in  England  as  faulty 
as  possible,  and  if  ranks  are  no  longer  distinguished  by  their  coats, 
they  are  at  least  divided  by  different  courts  of  justice,  patronage, 
rights  of  court  presentation,  prerogatives,  customary  privileges  and 
similar  fatalities  ;  and  if  the  rights  of  person  and  property  of  the 
people  depend  no  longer  upon  aristocratic  caprice,  but  upon  laws, 


*  Or  perhaps  the  piper  of  Hamelin,  so  quaintly  sung  by  Browning  ? 


still  these  laws  are  nothing  but  another  sort  of  teeth  with  which  the 
aristocratic  brood  seizes  its  prey,  and  another  sort  of  daggers,  where- 
with it  treacherously  murders  the  people.  For  in  reality,  no  tyrant 
upon  the  Continent  squeezes,  by  his  own  arbitrary  will,  so  many 
taxes  out  of  his  subjects,  as  the  English  people  are  obliged  to  pay 
by  law ;  and  no  tyrant  was  ever  so  cruel  as  England's  Criminal 
Law,  which  daily  commits  murder  for  the  amount  of  one  shilling,  and 
that  with  the  coldest  formality.  Although  many  improvements 
have  recently  been  made  in  this  melancholy  state  of  affairs  in  Eng- 
land ;  although  limits  have  been  placed  to  temporal  and  clerical 
avarice,  and  though  the  great  falsehood  of  a  popular  representation, 
is,  to  a  certain  degree,  occasionally  modified  by  transferring  the 
perverted  electoral  voice  of  a  rotten  borough  to  a  great  manufac- 
turing town,  and  although  the  harshest  intolerance  is  here  and  there 
softened  by  giving  certain  rights  to  other  sects,  still  it  is  all  a 
miserable  patching  up  which  cannot  last  long,  and  the  stupidest 
tailor  in  England  can  foresee  that,  sooner  or  later,  the  old  garment 
of  state  will  be  rent  asunder  into  the  wretchedest  of  rags. 

*  *  *  #•  *  *  * 

"No  man  putteth  a  piece  of  new  cloth  unto  an  old  garment;  for 
that  which  is  put  in  to  fill  it  up  taketh  from  the  garment  and  the 
rent  is  made  worse.  Neither  do  men  put  new  wine  into  old  bottles  ; 
else  the  bottles  break,  and  the  wine  runneth  out,  and  the  bottles 
perish :  but  they  put  new  wine  into  new  bottles  and  both  are 
preserved." 

The  deepest  truth  blooms  only  from  the  deepest  love,  and  hence 
comes  the  harmony  of  the  views  of  the  elder  Preacher  in  the  Mount, 
who  spoke  against  the  aristocracy  of  Jerusalem  ;  and  those  later 
preachers  of  the  mountain,  who  from  the  summit  of  the  Convention 
in  Paris,  preached  a  tri-colored  gospel,  according  to  which,  not 
merely  the  form  of  the  State,  but  all  social  life  should  be,  not 
patched,  but  formed  anew,  and  be  not  only  newly-founded,  but 
newly-born. 

I  speak  of  the  French  Revolution,  that  epoch  of  the  world,  in 
which  the  doctrines  of  freedom  and  of  equality  rose  so  triumphantly 
from  those  universal  sources  of  knowledge  which  we  call  reason,  and 
I  which  must,  as  an  unceasing  revelation  which  repeats  itself  in  every 
human  head,  and  founds  a  distinct  branch  of  knowledge,  be  far  pre- 
ferable to  that  transmitted  revelation  which  makes  itself  known 
only  in  a  few  of  the  elect,  and  which  can  only  be  believed  by  the 
multitude.    The  privileged  aristocracy,  the  caste-system  with  their 


—    466  — 

peculiar  rights,  were  never  able  to  combat  this  last-mentioned  sort 
of  revelation,  (which  is  itself  of  an  aristocratic  nature,)  so  safely  and 
surely  as  reason,  which  is  democratic  by  nature,  now  does.  The 
history  of  revolution  is  the  military  history  of  this  strife,  in  which  we 
have  all  taken  a  greater  or  lesser  part ;  it  is  the  fight  to  the  death 
with  Egyptianism. 

Though  the  swords  of  the  enemies  grow  duller  day  by  day,  and 
though  we  have  already  conquered  the  best  positions,  still  we  cannot 
raise  the  song  of  victory  until  the  work  is  perfected.  We  can  only 
during  the  night,  between  battles,  when  there  are  armistices,  go  forth 
with  the  lantern  on  the  field  of  death  to  bury  the  dead.  Little  avails 
the  short  burial  service  1  Calumny,  the  vile  insolent  spectre,  sits 
upon  the  noblest  graves. 

Oh,  that  the  battle  were  only  with  those  hereditary  foes  of  truth 
who  so  treacherously  poison  the  good  name  of  their  enemies,  and 
who  even  humiliated  that  first  Preacher  of  the  Mount ;  since  when 
they  could  no  longer  deny  that  he  was  the  greatest  of  men,  they 
made  of  him  the  least  of  gods.  He  who  fights  with  priests  may 
make  up  his  mind  to  have  his  poor  good  name  torn  and  befouled 
by  the  most  infamous  lies  and  the  most  cutting  slanders.  But  as 
those  flags  which  are  most  rent,  or  blackened  by  powder-smoke  in  the 
battle,  are  more  highly  prized  than  the  whitest  and  souudest  recruiting 
banners,  aud  as  they  are  at  last  laid  up  as  national  relics  in  cathe- 
drals, so  at  some  future  day  the  names  of  our  heroes,  the  more  they 
are  torn  and  blackened  will  be  all  the  more  enthusiastically  honored 
in  the  holy  Genofeva  Church  of  Freedom. 

The  revolution  itself  has  been  slandered,  like  its  heroes,  and  repre- 
sented as  a  terror  to  princes,  and  as  a  popular  scare-crow  in  libels 
of  every  description.  All  of  the  so-called  "  horrors  of  the  Revolu- 
tion" have  been  learned  by  heart  by  children  in  the  schools,  and  at 
one  time  nothing  was  seen  in  the  public  fairs  but  harshly-colored 
pictures  of  the  Guillotine.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  this  machine 
which  was  invented  by  Monsieur  Guillotin,  a  French  physician  and 
a  great  world  orthopaedist,  and  with  which  the  stupidest  heads  are 
easily  separated  from  evil  hearts,  this  most  excellent  and  wholesome 
machine,  has  indeed  been  applied  rather  frequently,  but  still  only  in 
incurable  diseases,  in  such  cases  for  example  as  treachery,  falsehood 
and  weakness,  and  the  patients  were  not  for  a  long  time  tortured, 
racked  and  broken  on  the  wheel  as  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
and  vilains,  citizens  and  peasants  were  tortured,  racked  and  broken 
roturiers  on  the  wheel  in  the  good  old  time.    It  is  of  course  terrible, 

40 


—    467  — 

that  the  French,  with  this  machine,  once  even  amputated  the  hor>d 
of  State  and  no  one  knows  whether  they  ought  tobe  accused,  on  that 
account,  of  parricide  or  of  suicide  ;  but  on  more  moderate  and  thorough 
reflection,  we  find  that  Louis  of  Prance  was  less  a  sacrifice  to  passion 
than  to  circumstances,  and  that  those  men  who  forced  the  people 
on  to  such  a  sacrifice,  and  who  have  themselves  in  every  age,  poured 
forth  princely  blood  far  more  abundantly,  should  not  appear  solely  as 
accusers.  Only  two  kings,  both  of  them  rather  kings  of  the  nobility 
than  of  the  people,  were  sacrificed  by  the  people,  and  that  not  in  a 
time  of  peace,  or  to  subserve  petty  interests,  but  in  the  extrernest 
needs  of  war,  when  they  saw  themselves  betrayed,  and  when  they 
least  spared  their  own  blood.  But  certainly  more  than  a  thousand 
princes  were  treacherously  slain,  on  account  of  avarice  or  frivolous 
interests,  by  the  dagger,  by  the  sword,  and  by  the  poison  of  nobility 
and  priests.  It  really  seems  as  though  these  castes  regarded  regicide 
as  one  of  their  privileges,  and  therefore  bewail  the  more  selfishly  the 
death  of  Louis  the  XYI.  and  of  Charles  I.  Oh  !  that  kings  at  last 
would  perceive,  that  they,  could  live  more  safely  as  kings  of  the 
people,  and  protected  by  the  law,  than  under  the  guard  of  their  noble 
body-murderers. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

But  not  only  have  the  heroes  of  our  revolution  and  the  revolution 
itself,  been  slandered,  but  even  our  entire  age  has  been  parodied 
with  unheard-of  wickedness,  and  if  one  hears  or  reads  our  vile 
traducers  and  scorners,  then  he  will  learn  that  the  people  are  the 
canaille — the  vile  mob — that  freedom  is  insolence,  and  with  heaven- 
bent  eyes  and  pious  sighs,  our  enemies  complain  and  bewail  that  we 
were  frivolous  and  had,  alas  !  no  religion.  Hypocritical,  sneaking 
souls,  who  creep  about  bent  down  beneath  the  burden  of  their  secret 
vices,  dare  to  vilify  an  age  which  is,  perhaps,  holier  than  any  of  its 
predecessors  or  successors,  an  age  that  sacrifices  itself  for  the  sins 
of  the  past  and  for  the  happiness  of  the  future,  a  Messiah  among 
centuries,  which  could  hardly  endure  its  bloody  crown  of  thorns  and 
heavy  cross,  did  it  not  now  and  then  trill  a  merry  vaudeville,  and 
crack  a  joke  at  the  modern  Pharisees  and  Sadducees.  Its  colossal 
pams  would  be  intolerable  without  such  jesting  and  persiflage ! 
Seriousness  shows  itself  more  majestically  when  laughter  leads  the 
way.  And  the  age  in  this  shows  itself  exactly  like  its  children 
among  the  French,  who  have  written  very  terrible,  frivolous  books, 
and  yet  have  been  very  strong  and  serious  when  strength  and  serious- 
ness were  necessary,  as  for  instance  Du  Clos,  and  evec  Louvet  dk 


—   468  — 


Couvrai,  who  both,  when  it  came  home  to  them,  fought  for  freedom 
with  the  boldness  of  martyrs  and  with  self-sacrifices,  yet  who  wrote 
very  trivially  and  lasciviously,  and,  alas  !  had  no  religion  ! 

As  if  freedom  were  not  as  good  a  religion  as  any  other !  And 
since  it  is  ours,  we  may,  measuring  with  the  same  meter,  declare  its 
contemners  to  be  themselves  frivolous  and  irreligious. 

Yes,  I  repeat  the  words,  with  which  I  opened  these  pages :  free- 
dom is  a  new  religion,  the  religion  of  our  age.  If  Christ  be  no 
longer  the  God  of  this  religion,  he  is  nevertheless  one  of 'its  high- 
priests,  and  his  name  shines  consolingly  into  the  hearts  of  the  younger 
believers.  But  the  French  are  the  chosen  race  of  the  new  religion, 
the  first  gospels  and  dogmas  were  penned  in  their  language.  Paris  is 
the  New  Jerusalem,  and  the  Ehine  is  the  Jordan,  which  separates 
the  land  of  liberty  from  the  country  of  the  Philistines. 


CONCLUSION. 
WRITTEN  NOVEMBER  29,  1830. 

It  was  in  depressed  times  in  Germany — times  which  were  under 
arrest — when  I  wrote  the  second  volume  of  the  Pictures  of  Travel, 
and  had  it  printed  as  I  wrote.  But  before  it  appeared,  something 
relative  to  it  was  whispered  about;  it  was  said  that  my  book  would 
encourage  and  awaken  the  co wed-down  spirit  of  freedom,  and  that 
measures  were  being  taken  to  suppress  it.  When  such  rumors  were 
afloat,  it  was  advisable  to  bring  out  the  book  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  to  drive  it  through  the  press.  As  it  was  necessary  that  it  should 
contain  a  certain  number  of  leaves,  to  escape  the  requisitions  of  the 
eminently  estimable  censorship,  I  followed  the  example  of  Bene- 
venuto  Cellini,  who,  when  he,  in  founding  his  Perseus,  found  him- 
self short  of  bronze,  to  supply  the  deficiency,  and  to  fill  up  the 
mould,  threw  into  the  melted  metal  all  the  tin  plates  which  he  could 
find.  It  was,  beyond  question,  easy  enough  to  detect  the  difference 
between  the  tin — especially  the  tin  termination  of  the  book — and  the 
better  bronze ;  but  any  one  who  understood  the  business,  would  not 
betray  the  secrets  of  the  workman. 

But  as  ever3Tthing  in  this  world  is  liable  to  turn  up  again,  so  it 
came  to  pass  that,  in  this  very  volume,  I  found  myself  again  in  the  same 


—   469  - 


scrape,  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  again  throw  somt  tin  into  the 
mould  — let  me  hope  that  this  renewed  melting  of  baser  metal  will 
simply  be  attributed  to  the  pressure  of  the  times. 

Ah  !  the  whole  book  sprang  from  the  pressue  of  the  times,  as  did 
the  similar  tendency  of  earlier  writings.  The  more  intimate  friends 
of  the  writer,  who  are  acquainted  with  his  private  circumstances, 
know  well  how  little  his  own  vanity  forced  him  to  the  tribune,  and 
how  great  were  the  sacrifices  which  he  was  obliged  to  make  for 
every  independent  word  which  he  has  spoken  since  then  and — if  God 
will ! — which  he  still  means  to  speak.  Now-a-days,  a  word  is  a  deed 
whose  consequences  cannot  be  measured,  and  no  one  knows  whether 
he  may  not  eventually  appear  as  blood-witness  for  every  word. 

For  years  I  have  waited  in  vain  for  the  words  of  those  bold 
orators,  who  once  in  the  meetings  of  the  German  Burschenschaft,  so 
often  claimed  a  hearing,  who  so  often  overwhelmed  me  with  their 
rhetorical  talent,  and  spoke  a  language  spoken  so  oft  before ;  they 
were  then  so  forward  in  noise — they  are  now  so  backward  in 
silence.*  How  they  then  reviled  the  French  and  the  Southern  Babel, 
and  the  un-German  frivolous  betrayers  of  the  Fatherland,  who  praised 
French-dom.    That  praise  verified  itself  in  the  great  week ! 

Ah,  the  great  week  of  Paris  !  The  spirit  of  freedom,  which  was 
wafted  thence  over  Germany,  upset,  of  course,  here  and  there,  some 
night-lamps,  so  that  the  red  curtains  of  sundry  thrones  took  fire, 
and  golden  crowns  grew  hot  under  blazing  night-caps  ;  but  the  old 
catch-polls,  in  whom  the  royal  police  trusted,  are  already  bringing 
out  the  fire-buckets,  and  now  scent  around  all  the  more  suspiciously 
and  forge  all  the  more  firmly  their  secret  chains,  and  I  mark  well 
that  a  far  more  impenetrable  prison  vault  is  being  arched  over  the 
German  people. 

Poor  imprisoned  people !  be  not  cast  down  in  your  need — Oh, 
that  I  could  speak  catapults  !  Oh,  that  I  could  shoot  falaricas  from 
my  heart ! 

The  aristocratic  icy  coat  of  reserve  melts  from  my  heart,  a  strange 
sorrow  steals  over  me — is  it  love,  and  naught  save  love  for  the  Ger- 
man race  ?  Or  is  it  sickness  ? — my  soul  quivers  and  my  eyes  burn, 
and  that  is  an  unfortunate  occurrence  for  a  writer,  who  should  com- 
mand his  material,  and  remain  nicely  objective,  as  the  schools  of  art 
require,  and  as  Goethe  himself  did — he  has  grown  to  be  eighty  years 
old  in  so  doing,  and  a  minister,  and  portly  at  that — poor  German 
race  !  that  is  thy  greatest  man  ! 

*  Sie  waren  sonst  so  vorlaut,  und  sind  jetet  so  nachstül. 

40 


—    470  — 

I  still  have  a  few  octavo  pages  to  fill,  and  will  do  so  with  a  story 
— it  has  been  floating  in  ray  head  since  yesterday — a  story  from  the 
life  of  Chart.es  the  Fifth.  But  it  is  now  a  long  time  since  I  heard 
it,  and  I  no  longer  remember  its  details  with  accuracy.  Such  thiDgs 
are  easily  forgotten,  if  one  does  not  receive  a  regular  salary  for 
reading  them  every  half  year  from  his  lecture  books.  But  what  does 
it  matter,  if  the  names  of  places  and  historical  dates  are  forgotten  ; 
so  long  as  their  inner  significance,  or  their  moral  remains  in  a  man's 
memory.  This  it  is  which  really  stirs  in  my  soul  and  mournfully 
moves  me  even  to  tears.    I  fear  lest  sickness  should  overpower  me. 

The  poor  emperor  was  captive  to  his  enemies,  and  lay  in  stern 
imprisonment.  I  believe  that  it  was  in  Tyrol.  There  he  sat  in  soli- 
tary sorrow,  abandoned  by  all  his  knights  and  courtiers,  and  no  one 
came  to  his  aid.  I  know  not  if  he  already  had  in  those  days  that  pale 
complexion,  like  cheese,  with  which  Holbein  portrays  him.  But  the 
misanthropically  scornful  under-lip  protruded,  beyond  question,  even 
more  markedly  then,  than  in  his  pictures.  He  must  have  despised 
the  beings  who  fawned  and  wagged  around  him  in  the  sunshine  of 
prosperity,  and  who  left  him  now  in  dark  and  bitter  need.  Suddenly 
the  prison  door  opened,  and  there  entered  a  man  wrapped  in  a  cloak, 
and  when  it  was  cast  aside,  the  emperor  recognised  in  the  visitor 
his  trusty  Kunz  von  der  Rosen,  the  court-fool.  This  one  brought 
him  consolation  and  counsel — and  it  was  the  court-fool. 

0,  German  Fatherland !  dear  German  race !  I  am  thy  Kunz  von 
der  Rosen.  The  man  whose  real  office  was  pastime,  and  who  only 
made  thee  merry  in  better  days,  forces  his  way  into  thy  prison,  in  time 
of  need  ;  here,  beneath  my  mantle,  I  bring  thee  thy  strong  sceptre 
and  the  beautiful  crown— dost  thou  not  remember  me,  my  emperor  ? 
If  I  cannot  free  thee,  I  will  at  least  console  thee,  and  thou  shouldst 
have  some  one  by  thee  who  will  talk  with  thee  about  thy  all  too 
pressing  oppressions,  and  will  wake  up  thy  courage,  and  who  loves 
thee,  and  whose  best  jokes  and  best  blood  are  ever  at  thy  service. 
For  thou,  my  people,  art  the  true  emperor,  the  true  lord  of  the  land 
— thy  will  is  sovereign  and  far  more  legitimate  than  that  purple  tel 
est  notre  plaisir,  who  grounds  his  claim  upon  a  divine  right,  without 
any  better  guarantee  than  the  quackery  of  shaven  and  shorn  jug- 
glers— thy  will,  my  people,  is  the  only  righteous  source  of  all  power. 
Yea,  even  though  thou  liest  down  there  in  fetters,  thine  own  good 
right  must  prevail  at  last,  the  day  of  freedom  draws  near,  a  new  time 
begins — my  emperor,  the  night  is  over,  and  the  red  light  of  morning 
gleams  without. 


—   471  — 

"  Kunz  von  der  Hosen,  my  poor  fool,  thou  errest.  Thou  hast 
mistaken  the  shining  axe  of  the  executioner  for  the  sun,  and  the 
morning-red  is  nothing  but  blood." 

"  No,  no,  my  emperor,  it  is  the  sun,  though  it  rises  in  the  West — 
since  six  thousand  years,  we  have  always  seen  it  rise  in  the  East — it 
is  high  time  that  it  for  once  made  a  change  in  its  course." 

"  Kunz  von  der  Rosen,  my  fool,  thou  hast  lost  the  bells  from  thy 
red  cap,  and  it  now  has  such  a  strange  look,  that  red  cap !" 

"  Ah,  my  emperor,  in  your  distress  I  have  shaken  my  head  in  such 
mad  earnest,  that  the  fool's  bell  fell  from  my  cap ;  but  it  is  none  the 
worse  for  that !" 

"  Kunz  von  der  Rosen,  my  fool,  what  is  it  breaking  and  cracking 
without  there  ?" 

"  Hush — silence  !  it  is  the  saw  and  the  carpenter's  axe,  and  the 
doors  of  your  prison  will  soon  be  broken  in,  and  you  will  be  free,  my 
emperor !" 

"Am  I  then  really  emperor?  Ah,  it  is  only  the  fool  who  tells 
me  so !" 

"  Oh,  do  not  sigh  so,  my  dear,  dear  lord,  it  is  the  air  of  the  dun- 
geon which  so  dispirits  you  ;  when  you  have  regained  your  power, 
you  will  once  more  feel  the  bold  imperial  blood  in  your  veins,  and 
you  will  be  proud  as  an  emperor,  and  arrogant,  and  gracious,  and 
unjust,  and  smiling,  and  ungrateful,  as  princes  are." 

"  Kunz  von  der  Rosen,  my  fool,  when  I  am  again  free,  what  wilt 
thou  be  doing  ?" 

"  I  will  sew  new  bells  on  my  cap." 

"  And  how  shall  I  reward  thy  fidelity  ?" 

"Ah!  dear  master — do  not  suffer  me  to  be  put  to  death  1" 

END  OF  THE  PICTURES  OP  TRAVEL. 


NOTICES  OF  THE  PRESS. 


Since  the  publication  of  the  first  number  of  Mr.  Leland's  version 
of  "  Heine's  Pictures  of  Travel,"  the  publisher  has  frequently  realized 
from  personal  assurances  and  letters  from  eminent  literary  authori- 
ties, both  in  America  and  Europe,  that  such  an  undertaking  was  not 
only  acceptable  to  the  reading  public,  but  that  it  has  been  executed 
with  remarkable  fidelity  and  spirit.  He  avails  himself  of  this  oppor- 
tunity to  return  his  sincerest  thanks  to  those  who  have  so  kindly 
approved  the  work,  including,  of  course,  those  members  of  the  press 
who  have  favored  it  with  examination  and  criticism. 

The  first  translation  of  a  classic  work  into  another  language  is 
almost  always  an  unenviable  task,  particularly  when  the  work  in  ques- 
tion is  of  so  very  difficult  a  nature  as  the  Reisebilder,  and  in  which, 
as  in  our  "  new  lands"  of  the  West,  a  very  great  proportion  of  the 
labor  which  they  demand  falls  upon  him  who  first  breaks  ground. 
In  face  of  these  facts,  the  publisher  is  both  gratified  and  grateful 
that  the  numerous  notices,  which  the  work  has  received  from  the 
press,  have  been,  almost  without  exception,  of  the  most  favorable 
nature,  and  that  those  journals,  which  had  most  frequently  manifested 
a  thorough  familiarity  with  Heine,  have  been  the  ones  which  have 
most  decidedly  praised  the  merits  of  Mr.  Leland's  translation. 

The  following  selections  will  satisfy  the  reader,  that  the  publisher's 
debt  of  gratitude  to  the  press  is  not  without  foundation  : 

The  London  Leader  of  September  1st,  1855,  contains  a  long  and 
brilliant  review  of  Mr.  Leland's  translation  of  the  Pictures  of  Travel, 
from  which  I  extract  the  following  : 

"  Nature  one  day  resolved  to  make  a  witty  German.  But  as  this 
supreme  paradox  was  not  to  be  achieved  all  at  once,  it  happened  that 
in  the  ardour  of  a  great  purpose,  she  mistook  Hebrew  blood  for  Ger- 
man, and  while  she  was  busy  adding  the  wit,  allowed  the  best  moral 
qualities  of  the  German  to  slip  out  of  her  hands.  So,  instead  of  the 
witty  Teuton  she  intended,  she  would  have  produced  merely  a  Vol- 
tairian Jew,  speaking  the  German  language,  if  she  had  not,  perceiving 
her  mistake  before  it  was  too  late,  superadded,  as  some  compensa- 
tion for  the  want  of  morale,  a  passionate  heart,  blending  its  emotions 
with  the  most  delicate  and  imaginative  sensibility  to  the  beau- 
ties of  earth  and  sky,  and  a  supreme  lyrical  genius  which  could 
weave  the  wit,  and  the  passion,  and  the  imagination  into  songs  light 
and  lovely  as  the  rainbows  on  the  spray  of  the  summer  torrent. 

"  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  we  have  that  wonderful  human  com- 


pound,  Heinrich  Heine,  a  writer  who  is  master  of  a  German  prose  as 
light  and  subtle,  and  needle-pointed  as  Voltaire's  French,  and  of  a 
poetic  style  as  crystalline,  as  graceful,  and  as  musical  as  that  of 
Geothe's  best  lyrics  ;  but  a  writer  who  is  destitute  of  the  distinct 
moral  couvictiou  which  often  inspired  Voltaire,  and  still  more  utterly 
destitute  of  the  profound  wisdom  and  the  depth  of  love  and  rever- 
ence which  roll  like  a  deep  river  under  the  sparkling,  dimpling  sur- 
face of  Goethe's  song.  Indeed,  we  know  nothing  more  likely  to  im- 
press a  reader  with  the  grander  elements  of  Goethe's  mind  than  a 
comparison  of  his  lyrics  with  Heine's,  for  the  very  reason  that  Heiue 
quite  equals  Goethe  in  all  the  charms  of  mere  sou;/;  and  has  one 
quality  mingling  itself  with  his  lyrical  power  which  Goethe  had  not — 
namely,  wit;  or  rather  to  express  it  more  specifically,  French  esprit. 
For,  alien  as  this  quality  might  seem  to  passionate  love-songs  and 
thrilling  legendary  pictures,  such  as  form  the  majority  of  Heine's 
poems,  it  is,  nevertheless,  almost  every  where  present,  giving  your 
rising  tears  the  accompaniment  of  a  laugh,  and  before  you  have  lost 
the  cold  shudder  at  his  spectral  visions,  appealing  irresistibly  to  your 
sense  of  fuu.  We  cannot  agree  with  his  very  clever  American  trans- 
lator, that  Humor  is  Heine's  grand  characteristic.  He  certainly  has 
humor — perhaps  even  enough  to  set  up  an  inferior  genius  as  a  humo- 
rist— but  we  think  it  will  be  found  that  his  greatest  effects  in  prose, 
and  most  of  the  contrasts  that  startle  us  in  his  poetry  arise  from  a 
Mephistophelean  wit,  a  verneinender  Geist,  rather  than  from  humor 
Vilich  affirms  all  that  is  genuinely  human,  instead  of  denying  it,  and 
is  in  fact,  an  exuberant  sympathy  acting  in  company  with  a  sense  of 
the  ludicrous,  while  wit  is  the  critical  intellect  acting  in  company  with 
that  same  sense.  Nevertheless,  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  are 
many  passages  of  Sterne-like  humor  in  Heine,  and  hereiu  he  is  least 
akin  to  the  French,  and  most  nearly  allied  to  the  broader,  deeper  Ger- 
man nature,  which  atones  for  the  want  of  esprit  by  something  which 
esprit  will  never  supersede — loving  earnestness." 

"  But  it  is  time  to  turn  from  such  rambling  remarks  to  the  object 
that  suggested  them — namely,  the  translation  of  Heine's  Reiscbilder, 
by  a  very  gifted  American.  Gf  Heine,  more  even  than  of  the  major- 
ity of  poets,  we  must  say  he  is  untranslatable  felicitous.  Hence 
when  we  praise  Mr.  Lelaud's  translation — and  we  do  so  very  sincerely 
— we  must  not  be  understood  to  mean  that  it  will  give  the  English 
reader  a  true  conception  of  Heine's  genius.  Mr.  Leland  has  that 
grand  requisite  of  a  translator,  rigorous  faithfulness;  he  has  also 
poetical  sensibility,  command  of  language,  and  an  evidently  acute 
perception  of  wit;  in  short  he  spoils  Heine's  poems  perhaps  as  little 
as  it  is  possible  to  spoil  them  in  a  translation.  This  may  not  seem  to 
be  high  praise,  but  we  firmly  believe  that  it  is  the  very  highest  praise 
tliat  can  ever  be  given  to  a  translation  of  Heine's  poems,  and  we 
recommend  the  reader  who  is  hopeless  of  knowing  these  poems  in  the 
original  to  make  his  acquaintance  with  them  through  Mr.  Loland's 
version." 


The  London  KAthenamm  of  December  29,  1855,  contains  a  review 
of  the  "  Pictures  of  Travel  by  Henry  Heine,  translated  by  Charles 
G.  Leland,"  As  the  Atlienceum,  from  its  frequent  and  admirably 
written  articles  on  Heine  is  entitled  to  the  consideration  due  to  the 
highest  English  authority  on  the  subject,  the  American  publisher 
takes  the  liberty  of  giving  the  main  portion  of  its  views  both  as  to 
the  merits  and  demerits  of  the  translation.  As  regards  the  very  few 
inaccuracies  subsequently  pointed  out  by  the  reviewer,  he  feels  called 
on  to  state  that  the  circumstances  under  which  the  version  was  pro- 
duced were  such  as  to  render  it  a  matter  of  surprise  that  they  are  so 
limited  in  number. 

"  Mr.  Leland  has  ably  acquitted  himself  of  a  very  difficult  task, — 
reproducing  the  spirit  of  the  original  as  much,  perhaps  as  is  possible, 
where  so  eccentric  a  writer,  whose  wit  turns  so  much  upon  peculiar- 
ities of  expression,  has  to  be  dealt  with,  and  bringing  to  bear  a  copious 
knowledge  of  things  as  an  assistance  in  finding  proper  equivalents  for 
words.  Particularly  prominent  is  his  erudition  in  the  "  Burschikos" 
language — i.  e.  the  slang  of  the  students,— -which  frequently  occurs 
in  the  '  Reisebilder,'  and  the  notes  that  he  appends  in  explanation  of 
the  phrases,  proper  to  this  classic  tongue,  will  render  his  translation 
valuable  to  many  even  of  those  who  can  read  Heine  in  the  original. 

"  We  would  however  suggest  a  careful  revision  of  the  work  in  case 
a  subsequent  impression  is  intended.  Mr.  Leland  is  evidently  too 
familiar  with  the  language  and  the  allusions  of  Heine  to  sin  from 
mere  ignorance,  but  here  and  there  we  have  noticed  a  mistake  of  care- 
lessness which  might  as  well  be  weeded  out." 

The  London  Literary  Gazette  of  Oct.  13, 1855,  in  a  brief  notice 
speaks  of  Heine's  Pictures  of  Travel,  translated  by  Charles.  G. 
Leland,  as  a  literal  translation  which  will  give  an  idea  of  the  original 
subject  to  those  not  acquainted  with  German. 

Dr.  R.  W.  Griswold's  "  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,"  edition 
of  1855,  p.  595,  contains  the  following: 

"Mr.  Leland's  'Pictures  of  Travel,' translated  from  the  German 
of  Henry  Heine,  is  an  admirable  rendering  of  the  great  wits, '  Reise- 
bilder,' in  which  the  spirit  of  the  original  is  given  with  a  point  and 
elegance  rarely  equalled  in  English  versions  of  German  poetry,  while 
the  whole  is  singularly  literal  and  exact." 

The  New  York  Knickerbocker  Magazine  of  February,  1856,  contains 
the  following: 

"Mr.  Leland  has  made  translations  of  popular  songs,  ballads,  and 
minor  poems  from  almost  all  the  languages  of  ancient  and  modern 
Europe.  From  the  French  of  all  patois,  and  from  the  Languc  d'Oc 
and  the  Langue  d'Oil  of  the  Troubadour  and  the  Trouvere  ;  from 
the  German  of  Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Heine ;  from  the  most  obscure 


and  corrupted  German  of  the  provinces,  and  from  the  German  of  the 
'  Nibelungen  Lied,'  and  of  the  Minnesingers  ;  from  Dutch,  Danish, 
Swedish,  Spanish,  Kuss,  Polish,  Bohemian  and  Croatian;  from 
the  Italian  of  Tuscany,  and  from  the  Venetian  and  other  dialects; 
from  the  Horatian  Latin,  from  Monk-Latin,  from  the  Latin  of  the 
rhyming-  versifiers,  and  from  the  Latin  of  the  Macaronic  poets. 
Here  is  enough,  in  all  conscience,  when  we  consider  that  these  trans- 
lations were  carefully  executed,  and,  as  we  have  been  informed,  are 
strikingly  after  the  spirit  of  the  originals.  His  latest  and  most  im- 
portant effort  of  this  kind  is  a  translation  of  the  '  Reixebilder,1  or 
'  Pictures  of  Travel,'  of  Heine,  already  noticed  in  our  pages.  Heine, 
as  every  one  knowrs,  is  the  literary  idol  of  young  Germany.  His  free 
mode  of  thought  in  religion,  politics,  morals,  and  criticism,  ha?  won 
him  a  host  of  admirers  among  a  nation  who  are  thirsting  for  liberty 
in  any  form,  and  who  eagerly  grasp  at  the  shadow  if  the  substance 
be  denied  them.  Apart  from  the  liberal  tendencies  of  Heine,  which 
he  possesses  in  common  with  his  more  enlightened  countrymen,  no 
one  can  deny  his  transcendent  genius.  Among  the  more  sedate  and 
orderly  lights  of  German  literature,  he  blazes  like  a  wild  and  erratic 
meteor.  A  poet,  a  humorist,  a  wit,  a  satirist,  a  critic,  a  scholar,  in 
the  highest  sense  of  all  these  terms ;  his  is  a  genius  the  like  of  wThich 
Germany  has  not  seen  since  Goethe,  and  in  all  his  fulness  may  never 
see  again.  To  the  translation  of  this  remarkable  author,  Mr.  Le- 
land  brings  as  remarkable  qualifications,  and  faithfully  has  he  per- 
formed his  task.  The  common  faults  of  translators  are,  that  they 
are  either  so  literal  as  to  preserve  the  dead  form  of  their  original,  in 
all  its  strange  wrappings  of  foreign  idioms,  while  the  subtler  spirit 
escapes,  or  so  free  as  to  endeavor  to  make  the  spirit  manifest  without 
the  intervention  of  its  visible  form.  Mr.  Leland  has  steered  a  mid- 
dle course  between  these  two  extremes.  Both  the  form  and  essence 
of  Heine  are  preserved  in  his  translation;  but  without  resorting  to 
the  aid  of  German  idioms  to  convey  ideas  which  can  be  more  truth- 
fully reproduced  in  our  own.  We  shall  not  be  guilty  of  the  presump- 
tion of  pronouncing  authoritatively  on  the  merits  of  Mr.  Leland's 
translation  as  a  translation.  To  do  that,  is  to  set  up  the  claim  of  an 
equal  knowledge  of  both  languages.  There  are,  doubtless,  many 
who,  with  not  half  our  German,  or  a  tithe  of  Mr.  Leland's,  will  write 
pages  upon  the  subject.  All  that  we  wish  to  say  is,  that  the  '  Pictures 
of  Travel,'  in  its  English  dress,  is  a  delightful  volume,  and  deserving 
of  the  widest  popularity. 

From  the  New  York  Tribune,  July  31st,  1855. 
No  modern  German  writer,  for  either  wit  or  wickedness,  can  be 
compared  with  Henry  Heine.  A  Jew  in  lineage,  an  atheist  in  feeling, 
a  devotee  of  the  apotheosis  of  matter  in  doctrine,  and  a  worshipper 
of  aesthetic  voluptuousness  in  religion,  he  has  launched  the  keenest 
darts  of  satire  against  the  most  warmly  cherished  opinions  and 
customs  of  the  age.  Whatever  change  may  have  come  over  him  in 
his  recent  days  of  bed-ridden  infirmity,  he  has  left  his  stamp  on 


German  literature,  as  the  boldest,  sharpest,  wittiest,  profanest  and 
most  reckless  writer  in  the  language.  Still  as  we  are  bound  to  give 
the  devil  his  due,  it  must  be  admitted  that  Heine  exhibits  an  immense 
fund  of  vitality,  a  surprising  insight  into  the  weakness  of  human 
nature,  and  a  certain  vein  of  sincerity  which  somewhat  mitigates  the 
bitterness  of  his  sardonic  scorn.  It  is  well  remarked  by  the  transla- 
tor of  this  work  in  his  discriminating  preface  :  "  It  were  worse  than 
folly  to  attempt  to  palliate  Heine's  defects.  That  they  exist  engrained, 
entwined  and  integrate  with  his  better  qualities,  admits  no  doubt  or 
denial.  But  they  have  been  in  every  age  so  strikingly  characteristic 
of  every  writer  of  his  class,  that  we  are  forced  to  believe  them 
inseparable." 

*  *  *  *  *  •*  * 

"The  Pictures  of  Travel,"  of  which  we  have  here  the  first  monthly 
instalment,  has  never  before  been  published  in  an  English  translation, 
and  is  entirely  beyond  the  reach  of  most  "oversetters"  of  German 
Mr.  Leland,  however,  has  acquitted  himself  of  presumption  by  the 
manner  in  which  he  has  executed  his  task.  lie  not  only  shows  an 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  original,  but  a  remarkable  facility  in 
retaining  the  spirit  of  the  author's  pungent  humor,  which  so  easily 
evaporates  in  translation.  In  the  poetical  pieces,  his  mastery  of 
English  versification  enables  him  to  preserve  the  odd  turns  of  the 
original,  without  too  great  a  sacrifice  of  verbal  fidelity. 

The  Commonwealth  (Glasgow,  Scotland)  of  September  6th,  1855, 
in  commenting  upon  the  London  Leader's  notice  of  Heine,  remarks 
that 

"  We  seize  with  delight  upon  the  specimens  of  translation  given  in 
the  Leader.  The  second  we  have  not  seen  before.  The  first  we 
happen  to  know  with  perfect  intimacy  and  can  express  our  assent  to 
the  cordial  applause  bestowed  on  the  translator  by  the  Leader. 
These  English  verses  are  an  achievement  in  poetical  translation." 

The  New  York  Albion  of  July  14th,  1855,  says  of  the  translation  of 

Heine. 

"It  is  well  that  an  author  exercising  so  vast  an  influence  over  the 
great  German  world  should  become  known  beyond  the  limits  of  his 
native  tongue,  and  that  he  should  have  found  an  interpreter  in  this 
country,  of  a  tarn  of  mind  that  fits  him  to  comprehend  and  appreciate 
so  peculiar  a  genius,  and  of  such  skill  and  taste  as  enable  him 
worthily  to  execute  the  difficult  task  of  rendering  him  from  one  lan- 
guage into  another.  Mr.  Leland,  judging  from  his  contributions  to 
literature — a  few  of  which  have  from  time  to  time  appeared  in  our 
columns — must  have  been  long  familiar  with  Heine  and  the  school  at 
the  head  of  which  he  stands,  We  are  not,  therefore,  surprised  to  find 
that  this  first  portion  of  Heine's  Reisebilder,  done  into  English, 
promises  us  a  faithful,  genial,  and  scholarly  work.  *  * 
We  augur  for  it — if  not  the  popularity  that  greets  many  a  trashy  bit 
of  fustian — a  cordial  welcome  from  the  elite  of  readers.    There  are, 


we  know,  men  by  the  score,  who  cannot  for  the  life  of  them  discover 
the  merits  of  Rabelais,  Sterne,  Swift,  Beranger,  Carlyle,  and  others, 
who — widely  as  they  differ  from  each  other,  possess  in  common  the 
rare  gift  of  originality.  To  such  we  cannot  recommend  Heine.  We 
turn  him  over  to  the  few  who  can  pardon  much  that  runs  counter  to 
their  views  or  prejudices,  for  the  sake  of  what  they  may  gather  that 
is  earnest,  suggestive,  humorous,  or  pathetic,  in  a  "witty,  wise  and 
wicked"  writer.  We  only  hope  that  Mr.  Leland  will 

have  given  our  readers  half  the  pleasure  we  have  derived  from  his 
conscientious  and  spirited  labours." 

The  Westminster  Review  of  January,  1856,  in  a  long  article  on 
Heine  based  on  the  publisher's  (Ueik's)  German  edition  of  Heine's 
Works  and  on  Hoffmann  and  Campe' s  "  Vermischte  Schriften  von 
Heinrich  Heine,"  mentions  in  a  brief  but  complimentary  manner 
"  the  meritorious  translation  of  Heine's  Works  by  Charles  Leland." 

The  Philadelphia  North  American  of  September  15th,  1855,  says,  that 
"The  Pictures  of  Travel,  as  will  ere  this  have  doubtless  been  per- 
ceived by  many  of  our  readers,  consist  in  a  series  of  aesthetical 
sketches,  in  prose  and  verse,  of  various  wanderings,  through  various 
years,  over  the  States  of  Germany.  It  would  be  a  work  of  super- 
erogation to  dwell  upon  the  merits  of  the  original.  Popular  opinion 
breathing  as  well  from  the  wayside  auberge  of  the  Tyrol  as  from  the 
most  difficult  and  hypercritical  salons  of  France,  England  and  Ger- 
many, has  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  possessed  but  one  phase  of 
judgment  on  this  point.  Our  business,  however,  is  with  the  merits 
of  Mr.  Leland's  translation.  And  here,  the  task  is  happily  an  easy 
one.  For  though  the  temptation,  on  a  perusal  of  this  work,  is  irre- 
sistible, a  comparison  of  the  respective  merits  of  Mr.  Leland  and 
Professor  Longfellow  as  translators,  is  manifestly  unfair.  The  latter 
selects  the  gem  from  his  author,  and  devotes  a  peculiar  talent  and  an 
unwearied  industry  to  their  polishing  and  preparation  for  the  English 
and  American  market.  The  former  takes  his  subject  en  bloc,  and 
accomplishes  his  task  from  beginning  to  end  ;  giving  us  not  only  the 
richest,  but  the  dullest  sides  of  the  tapestry ;  and  while  he  vies  suc- 
cessfully with  any  competitor  in  the  rendering  of  those  chef  oV  ceuvres 
on  which  an  artist's  fame  depends  with  the  general  reader,  spares 
not  to  devote  equal  attention  to  the  remaining  passages,  to  which  the 
accurate  student  looks  for  the  sustainment  of  an  author's  reputation. 
This  is  what  constitutes  a  chief  merit  of  the  pages  before  us.  In 
the  verses  the  reader  will  recognize  many  of  the  most  exquisite  pas- 
sages of  the  German  lyre ;  and  in  the  prose  portions  he  will  be  surprised 
and  delighted  with  the  mixture  of  wild  pathos  and  intense  humor. 

The  London  Illustrated  News  in  speaking  of  the  poems  of  Heine, 
says,  that 

"  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  state,  that  the  poetry  will  be  found, 
for  the  most  part,  very  well  done  in  Mr.  Leland's  translation." 


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